


Carmen Cygni

by amarillogrande



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Changed the ending because I can, Creature Castiel, Cursed Castiel, Curses, DCBB, Dark Castiel, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magic, Prince Dean, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, Violence, sort of, swan lake AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:43:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: The King of Daughton dies, without any heirs. According to local law, the law then passes to a blood relative, no matter how distant.  Uprooted from his home, Dean Winchester is given a crown and the task of finding a bride. He must marry before he comes of age.Dean is on the eve of his 21st birthday, yet he cannot find love among the many that try to win his favor.Only when Dean meets a stranger, an enigmatic young man in the woods, is his heart touched. He falls for the mysterious Castiel, unaware of his terrible secret—that Castiel and his fellows have been cursed for years—cursed to transform into swans during the day, only returning to human form at night. And according to legend, the spell can only be broken with a proclamation of eternal fidelity. A proclamation of love.





	1. Act I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, my second time ever participating in the DCBB. This was an especially big challenge for me this year, with limited writing time but so many big ideas, so if you're here, and you happen to give it a read, thank you. Thank you so much.
> 
> Also a big wonderful thank you to my artist, [deathbycoldopen](http://deathbycoldopen.tumblr.com/), for her patience and beautiful artwork.  
> Hit me up on tumblr at [chevrolangels](chevrolangels.tumblr.com) to scream about Season 12 ♥

 

 

 

 

“I don’t want to go.”

 

 

 

 

 

Dean looks up.

 

Sam is standing in his doorway, fidgeting anxiously, fingers tugging at the edges of his new doublet.

Dean sighs, and closes his book.

“Come here,” he says, standing.

 

Sam bites his lip, hesitantly stepping forward. Dean looks him up and down, then signals him to turn. He places a hand on his shoulder, checking him over.

“Stand still,” he chastises gently. Sam stops, hands dropping to his sides.

 

Dean eyes him critically, and shakes his head. Sam’s laces are entirely too loose, his left sleeve slightly askew. He redirects his brother over to the looking glass in the corner, and starts pulling at the laces, this time doing them properly.

 

They’re both silent as Dean works, Sam’s eyes trained stubbornly on the ground.

Dean glances up.

“I know,” he says softly. “I don’t want to be there anymore than you do.”

 

Dean finishes with the left side and motions Sam to let him see the right. It’s a beautiful doublet, gold plum brocade, tailored and sewn especially for Sam. It must have cost a small fortune—money that could have been better spent elsewhere.

Dean forgets himself, yanking viciously at the laces. Sam glances over sharply, scowling at him. Dean stops, forcing himself to take a deep breath.  

"But we have to be there," he mutters. "It's our duty now."

 

“But it's not _truly_ important," Sam says petulantly as Dean starts up again. "Not like a feast or a ball. Just dinner. I don't understand why she's making us be there."

Dean clenches his jaw, finishing up the ties.

He knows exactly why—but he can't tell Sam that. Because Dean refused to attend the dinner if Sam was not present as well. Dean doubts Sam would appreciate that if he knew.

So Dean ignores him, instead checking over his finished handiwork. Sam’s now perfectly presentable, which will please Mother.

 

He steps away, picking up his book again.

"That'll do," he says dismissively.

Sam pouts.

“But Dean—“

Dean cuts him off, his temper rising.

“No, Sam,” he says sharply. “We're required to be there. Like it or not—this is our life now."

Sam glares at him. Dean turns away, waving a hand.

"Now, go on downstairs," he says snidely. "They'll be expecting us soon.”

 

Dean picks up his book again, sitting down. He can feel Sam's stare—but after a moment, he huffs and stalks off, slamming the door to Dean’s room behind him.

Dean exhales, sinking his head in his hands.

 

In just a few short hours, several members of the court will be gather at the castle, for the first presentation of the royal family. It's still unofficial—the grand feast planned for next week will be the first formal event, but that does not mean tonight isn't dreadfully important. Mary impressed as much upon Dean that morning—that the majority of the guests are highly influential nobles in Daughton, several with young daughters.

 

Dean breathes in, rubbing his temples. 

The Winchesters had arrived nearly a week prior, and there was a small impromptu ceremony, the brief reading of a document and a few signatures that meant the Kingdom of Daughton was now under the jurisdiction of Mary Winchester, Queen Regent, until her son was of age. Dean remembers watching his mother sign the parchment, his heart as black as the ink that signed away his future.

 

A week since they had left Laurence. A week since they had left behind their home, left everyone they had ever known—to come to this unknown land, all because of an uncle who they had never set eyes on, who selfishly died and left his kingdom with no heirs. And now their family had been uprooted, taken to this new court, where everything was so different, and there were so many _rules._

Most of Dean's and his family's time has been spent getting all their belongings carted in and rearranged, the three of them trying to adapt to the new castle—but his mother had been running herself ragged, trying to get her sons settled while also dealing with her new many responsibilities. Dean knows she’s been trying her hardest to make them feel at home here, in this new land, but still—Dean can’t help the gnawing feeling of dread in his stomach.

 

About an hour before dinner, they try to foist about six servants on Dean, to help him dress. Dean replies curtly that he's been dressing himself his whole life, and sends them all away. Just because his name now designates him as a royal doesn't mean he's incapable of simple tasks.

 

He quickly puts on the outfit picked out for him—a jerkin in the Daughton style that Dean would never choose to wear—and sits brooding in his room until a servant comes to fetch him for dinner.

 

As Dean follows the man out the door, he pauses at the sight of himself in the mirror. His reflection is pristine, no scratches or cracks marring the glass.

 

Dean takes a deep breath. He doesn’t recognize this young prince, this man staring back at him.

 

"M'lord," the servant says urgently. "The queen is waiting."

 

Dean tears his eyes away.

"Apologies," he mutters. 

 

 

He follows the man, leaving Dean Winchester behind. From this point on, he is a prince.

 

The door shuts behind him.

 

 

x

 

“You might try to smile.”

Dean glares back at Benny.

“I’ll smile when I have occasion to,” he mutters.

 

Benny purses his lips and turns his eyes away, leaning back to take up his post once again. Dean exhales, keeping his hands stiff behind his back, one hand gripping his wrist.

 

The steward steps up, announcing yet another couple.

“The Lord and Lady Bergen,” he says crisply.

 

 

The woman is petite, her dress elegant, but not extravagant. She approaches the dais where Dean and his family stand, and Dean feels the back of his neck prickle. 

She sweeps into a deep curtsy.

“Your majesty,” she says, lifting her head. Her husband follows suit, murmuring his greetings. Both their voices are lilting and sharp, the accent of Daughton just different enough to be jarring.

 

Mary is all courtesies, smiling and performing the usual pleasantries. Dean stands stiffly behind her, waiting for his turn. He can feel Sam fidgeting beside him.

“Stop it,” he hisses at him, and he sees Sam sulkily drop his hands, scowling at the ground.

 

“And this is my eldest. Dean.”

 

She beckons, Dean's cue to come forward. Both of them bow, and Dean returns the gesture, forcing a smile.

"An honor, madam. Sir."

The lady does not respond, just eyes him up and down, her mouth twisting. Her husband stands at her elbow, his beady eyes looking around, taking note of the invited guests.

"And this is...your brother?" The woman asks, turning her pale eyes over to Sam, who immediately flushes, and drops his gaze. Dean resists the urge to groan.

 

The lady most certainly noticed, but thankfully, does not pass comment.

“Handsome,” she says sweetly, before turning back to Dean.

She smiles, eyes sharp as swords. 

“Dean, precious. As the heir to our throne, I must say—I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“And I, my lady,” Dean lies. She simpers at that, and Dean is conscious of Mary, smiling in approval.

 

They're interrupted the the blare of a horn, signaling the start of dinner.

Lady Bergen offers up a gilded arm, smiling poisonously, and Dean cannot refuse.

 

 

 

x

 

 

“I hear the customs in Laurence can be quite strange,” the fat man says.

 

Dean glances up from his plate.

 

His mother continues to eat her soup, seemingly unperturbed, but Dean can see how white her knuckles are on the spoon. Sam is looking back and forth between the two of them, his eyes wide.

 

Dean delicately sets down his fork, wiping his hands on the fine linen napkin on his lap.

“I don’t know if ‘strange’ is the proper word, Lord Carroll.”

He gives the man a cool smile.

“After all, what is strange but something new?” Dean asks.

 

The man fixes shrewd eyes on him, tipping yet more wine into his waiting mouth.

 

Dean resists the urge to glare back, instead dropping his eyes to his hands. Breathe in. Out.

 

“What my son means to say is, of course, that it has been a change,” Mary says. She smiles and Dean can feel her melting every heart in the room, no matter how icy. “Dean was loathe to leave the hills of Laurence, but he understood that we are needed here.”

“Indeed,” a tall thin woman adds, simpering. “I daresay Daughton desperately needed a handsome young heir.”

The women around the table all chuckle, smiling knowingly. Dean tightens his grip on the napkin.

 

“Women and their gossip,” Lord Carroll snorts, lifting his goblet again, not noticing as a dribble of wine trickles down his front. 

Dean curls his lip. What an odious man.

 

"It's different, yes, but the castle is wonderful," Sam starts, prompting every eye to turn to him. He stops, hesitating under the sudden scrutiny. But Mary smiles and gestures, encouraging him to continue.

Sam clears his throat, timid at first, but then growing bolder as he continues.

“The library alone…" He smiles. "Such a collection of books. I don’t know when I’ll have time to read them all.”

It’s a wonderfully innocent comment, and the nobles respond appropriately with another round of laughter, and a couple adoring looks.

 

Dean sinks back, glaring sourly at his plate. It’s already perfectly clear which Winchester has endeared himself to the lords and ladies of Daughton. And it definitely isn't the surly, sulking crown prince.

 

His first mistake was not pulling out the chair for the Lady Bergen. She had stood there, waiting, while the sounds of titters filtered in from the sides. Then he unknowingly insulted Sir Bedford's favorite dish, a Daughton 'delicacy' made from tongue, and it only grew worse from there.

Within the first thirty minutes of dinner, Dean seemed to have found a way to offend every single person in the room.

 

Dean snatches up his fork again, resisting the urge to stand, to stalk out of this hall, to ride to Laurence and never come back.

 

 

Around him, the talk continues, but Dean feels no desire to participate, and none try to engage him either. He returns to his food, even though it's tasteless in his mouth.

 

"And Dean, my dear."

The babble of talk dies down. Dean looks up, to realize every eye has turned to him.

"What is it you enjoy?"

 

“Enjoy?” He repeats. The woman two seats down sets down her glass.

“Your brother has made his love for our books known,” she says, smiling in Sam’s direction. “But we have yet to hear from the eldest Winchester.”

Dean blinks, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He tries in vain to remember her name.

“I—“

He glances down the table at his mother. She presses a finger against her cheek, raising an eyebrow. 

 

Dean clears his throat.

“I know my mother would rather I spent my time with books as well,” he says, the thought bringing a little smile to his face, despite his mood. “But more than anything, I love to hunt.”

 

Never has he felt the tone of a room shift so suddenly. All the talk around the table abruptly dies, and the smiles falter.

“Hunt,” someone repeats.

“Barbaric,” comes a whisper, and a quick hushing sound.

 

Sam darts his eyes over to their mother, looking panicked. Mary’s lips are thin, and she’s staring at the one who spoke with an undisguised expression of intense dislike.

 

Dean tenses. He feels as if he’s just entered the battlefield, every word a potential disaster.

“It’s a common pastime. In Laurence,” he says shortly.

A short man with a bushy mustache snorts.

“Hunting should only be for food,” he proclaims.

 

That prickle of anger, the one that starting burning at the beginning of the night, now it roars into a flame. Dean turns his gaze sharply, ice in his voice.

“That is the only type of hunting I do, sir.”

 

The man flushes, and opens his mouth—but Lady Bergen cuts him off.

“Charles, we must be patient with their customs.”

 

She turns to Dean, that peculiar smile on her face.

“And you enjoy this…servant’s work?” She asks softly.

 

It's the last straw. Dean's control on his temper snaps, and he throws down his napkin, glaring back at her.

“I’ll have you know—“

 

“Dean.”

 

Mary lays her hand gently upon her son’s, saving him from seizing his own wine goblet and throwing its contents in Lady Bergen’s snide face.

 

“Dean is tired, I know,” Mary says quickly. “This week has been long, and I hope you’ll excuse him.”

She squeezes his arm, hard enough to hurt.

“Dean?" She says evenly. "The things I asked you to attend to?”

 

Dean shoots a glare at her, but Mary is unfazed. She stares back at her son, steel in her gaze.

 

Dean shoves back from the table, muttering a pardon from the guests before he takes his leave. He stalks down the hall, Benny trailing after him like a shadow.

 

 

 

He's only allowed to rejoin the party when Benny intervenes, reassuring Mary that Dean won't lose his temper again. The guests dismiss from dinner, laughing and mingling in one of the smaller ballrooms. Someone sets up a game of cards, and others seat themselves in the corner, listening to the songs and poetry of the minstrels.

Dean slips in silently, and musters up a smile for anyone that looks his way. He takes care to stay well away from the Bergens.

 

 

Time drags on. The sky grows dark, and servants step out of the shadows to light candles. It’s been hours, Dean is sweating in the stifling room, his doublet chafing his neck—and he hates every single last person in Daughton.

 

They’re snobbish, they’re uptight, and they’ve been downright rude to his mother tonight, with subtle slights and pointed comments that Mary is too gracious to acknowledge. Dean is not oblivious to the whispers. He had truly wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but after tonight, it only confirms his fears. Even among these rich, cultured nobles—there are sentiments that the throne should have stayed with old Daughton blood, not a relative of the King—even if the laws of the kingdom require it.

To them, they’ll always be outsiders.

 

Dean unconsciously reaches up, tucking his hair behind his ear. They had wanted him to wear a crown tonight, but Dean had rejected the idea vehemently. 

There won’t be a coronation—there won’t be until Dean comes of age—but for now his mother is the Regent, the protector of the realm, and she deserves all the respect that comes with the title. Another strange rule of this land—women are not allowed to own property, or hold titles—meaning the throne will pass to Dean.

Dean snorts. And they call us barbaric.

 

By fortune or by ill luck, Dean’s birthday is just over a month away. Then he will be eligible to take the throne and rule in his own right.

 

 

Dean sighs, dragging a hand down his face. He hears Benny ask him something, but he waves him off, in no mood to talk. He’s grateful that some of their court was allowed to accompany them to Daughton—he thinks his family and Benny are the only things that kept him sane during this past week—but right now, he wants to be alone.

 

He slips away from the rest of the guests, heading down one of the lesser hallways that leads to a winding back staircase. He crosses back, invisible to the babble of voices below, the early departure of some of the guests. Curious, he crouches down, listening.

 

“…so handsome. He’ll be snatched up before you know it.”

“He’ll have to be. Without a Daughton marriage to secure the line—“

“They’ll never be accepted, of course.”

Dean clenches his jaw. 

The voices come again.

“I don’t envy her though. That horrid accent—“

“I can look past it,” the first woman says. “After all, talking is not required to make heirs.”

They erupt into a burst of laughter, voices fading as they exit the hall.

Dean stays absolutely still, his eyes burning. He waits until he can’t hear anything and escapes to his room, throwing himself down on his bed.

 

 

 

                                                                                            

 

Breakfast is silent and tense.

Dean knows his mother is angry with him, he can tell by the way she purses her lips every time he speaks. His behavior at the dinner was horrible and he knows it, but he can’t help his feelings. It’s selfish of him, but part of Dean resents his mother for bringing them here.

He goes for a short ride in the late morning. It's the first time he’s had a chance to get outside, to explore and see the country that would eventually be his. He takes a quick circuit around the castle grounds, even venturing out into some of the villages that surround the castle. And what he sees is beautiful, really. Daughton is known as the Land of the Green, and for good reason. Crops are plentiful and the trees tall and thick, but it’s nothing like the rolling grasses and plains of Laurence.

 

Dean dismounts with a longing sense of melancholy, patting Chevre as the attendant takes her away.

 

He walks back into the main hall, tugging at his riding gloves. He had not been idle during his ride. He knows he should find his mother, and he should apologize. He still does not know her schedule, but perhaps someone could—

“Sire!”

 

Damn.

 

 

Dean smiles blandly, raising his hand in a brief greeting. There’s a staircase, just there, if he can make it—

But the courtier is on him like a fly on honey, her wrinkled face inches from his own.

“Dean Winchester,” she says, bowing slightly.  “You have no idea how pleased we are to welcome your family—“

“Thank you,” Dean replies mechanically, trying to prise his sleeve from her grip.

“And a ball so soon!” she simpers, her smile wide. “When do you come of age, dear boy?”

Dean shifts uncomfortably.

“The 24th.”

“The 24th!,” She cries, way louder than need be. “Well, I shall be in attendance!”

Her hand seizes upon Dean’s wrist, her smile turning dark.

“And so handsome.”

She bats her eyelashes at Dean, her grip tightening.

“Any young lady would be lucky to catch your eye,” she says.

Dean succeeds in wrestling his sleeve out of her hand, backing away.

 

“Undoubtedly,” he mutters, looking left and right. “But I apologize, lady—my mother asked me to…um—“

 

He’s miraculously saved when a few servingmen clatter through the hall, a few of the Winchesters’ possessions that were late in being delivered in their wake. Dean slips away silently when the woman turns to look, and darts up the stairs, casting an eye on the madness below.

He doesn’t know where his mother is—probably in the Great Hall, going over accounts with her advisors, something she refused to let Dean sit in on. He doesn't understand why—he'll soon have to take over those duties. He doesn’t know why she puts so little faith in him.

Then he remembers his behavior from last night, and grimaces.

 

 

Dean has to dodge a few more courtiers as he tries to get back to his room, struggling to remember his way in the strange new castle.

Up two flights, then a right, down the corridor with the statue of a lion—wait.

Dean turns, frowning. This doesn’t look familiar. Perhaps it was a left—?

“My lord!”

Someone down the hall, waving a hand frantically in his direction. Dean curses, and looks around, pulling open the first door he sees and shoving it closed behind him. He exhales slowly, leaning back against it.

 

Once he regains his breath, he looks around, wondering what new place he's gotten himself into.

Lining the room, wall to wall, are dusty shelves, crammed with the largest collection of books Dean's ever seen in his life. But not only books—Dean walks slowly, seeing maps and parchments and an odd assortment of objects piled in haphazardly among the tomes, lit by the dusty sunlight coming from the windows high above. He leans down to look at one of the titles, and is surprised to find a pair of eyes peering back at him.

Sam unfolds himself from behind an opulent bookshelf, moving into the light.

 

“So,"he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "You finally got away.” 

Dean relaxes, huffing out a long breath.

“Finally.”

Sam sits, back on the floor. There seems to be no available seating, everything and anything is covered with stacks of books, so Dean takes a seat beside him, sighing.

“It’s still so unnerving—half a dozen people bowing everywhere I go." Dean drops his gloves on the floor next to him. "You’d think we were kings.”

“Well, we are.”

Sam turns the page, peering intently at the musty old book.

“Or at least you will be,” he says absently. Dean sighs.

He’s been trying not to think about it. Everyone else is happy enough to remind him, so when Dean is alone with his thoughts, he chooses not to dwell on the fact that his upcoming birthday brings a crown and a wedding ring with it.

 

Sam’s voice interrupts his gloom.

“Have you met the librarian?” He glances up, peering owlishly at Dean over the top of the book. “He’s quite a man.”

Dean thinks.

“No,” he says, frowning. “Has he been to any of the feasts, or—“

Something slams onto the desk right by his head, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

 

Dean swivels his head, searching for the source of the noise. The culprit continues to slaps books on his desk, watching Dean through narrowed eyes.

“So,” he says smartly. “You’re the other prince.”

Dean gawks at him. The pile of books grows higher, teetering dangerously, yet the man shows no concern.

“Um...yeah,” Dean says, shooting Sam a glance. "That's me."

The man curls up a piece of parchment, rapping it sharply against the table.

“That’s ‘yes, sir’, to you, boy.”

Dean bristles.

Normally, he would keep his mouth shut and obey—the man reminds him of his father, in that regard—but he’s already on edge today, and he’s had it with everyone in Daughton telling him what to do.

“Come next month, I will be your king,” Dean says stiffly. 

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair. The man doesn’t blink, giving Dean an unimpressed once-over.

“Then next month I’ll call you by your title,” he says gruffly. “But only if you show me the same respect.”

 

Dean holds his gaze, hoping that it comes off as commanding, despite the fact that he's sitting on the floor. He senses the challenge there, but a kind of stubborn integrity—a quality that the others at court severely lack. Something in Dean relaxes.

 

He inclines his head slightly.

“Yes, sir.”

 

Dean swears he sees a smirk on the man’s face before it disappears, replaced by a stern look.

“Glad to see we’ll have a royal of some sense here,” he mutters, flipping a couple of pages.

 

Dean raises an eyebrow. He had just started to like this man, he hopes he doesn't have to change his mind.

“That’s my family you’re talking about,” he says, lips curling slightly.

The man absently waves a hand.

“No offense meant, my lord, no offense meant.”

Dean shares a quick look with Sam, and they almost laugh.

My lord. How odd to be called that.

 

 

"They tell me your name's Dean," the man says, peering at him through cracked spectacles.

Dean nods, and the man moves around the side of the desk, holding out a hand. 

“Well, I’m Robert—but call me that and I’ll have your hide. Bobby.”

Dean reaches out, clasping his hand briefly before letting go. The name suits him. He’s dressed eclectically, worn robes that look like they’ve seen too many years, a hat of crushed velvet perched precariously on his head. He has a close-cropped beard of grey and black, crinkled but intelligent eyes behind his spectacles. His voice has a rough, rolling pitch to it, his accent marking him as a Man of Letters. Dean finds it strange, but not unpleasant.

Bobby jerks his head.

“I’ve already met your brother here. Can't seem to get a word out of him. All he does is read.”

They both glance at Sam, who’s buried his nose back in the book. 

Dean laughs, and nudges him, prompting Sam to look up.

“What are you reading there, young master?”

Sam holds up the heavy book, tilting it so they can see the title. _Legends and Tales of Old._

“I found it on one of the back shelves," he says, smiling. "It has several wonderful stories, some I’ve never heard before—“

“Nonsense,” Bobby says curtly, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “Fables for children.”

Sam huffs, dropping the book back on his lap.

“I enjoy them,” he says petulantly.

 

Dean moves over to Sam's side so he can see, looking down at the book. Every letter is neat, blocked and inked, spelling out a tale of transformation and magic. It's beautifully illustrated, gold leaf threaded through the drawing on the side of the pages—a white bird, poised to take flight. It must have taken months to complete.

 

Behind them, a creak and the rattling of the handle signal the opening of the door. Both brothers immediately duck behind the desk.

 

“Oh! Excuse me.”

 

Dean cautiously peeks around the desk, trying to catch a glimpse. It’s the same older woman who accosted him earlier. She glances around, disgruntled to discover Bobby is the only one in the room. She reluctantly addresses him.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I was looking for the elder prince, and I…”

She trails off, simpering. Bobby just raises an eyebrow.

“Perhaps you’ve seen him?” She asks, an impatient note creeping into her voice.

Bobby glances down at the two of them, squished behind the desk.

 

He looks back up.

“Nope,” he grunts.

 

The woman purses her lips.

She turns on her heel and leaves without another word, smartly closing the door behind her.

 

Dean groans, sinking his head in his hands. 

“Will we ever get a moment alone again?”

Bobby crosses his arms.

“Looks like you boys’re popular,” he says. Dean huffs, pushing himself up from the ground, dusting off his breeches.

“Don’t remind me.”

Dean looks over at Bobby, giving him a grateful smile.

“Thank you. Really.” The smile turns into a grimace. “I get the feeling we haven’t seen the last of our lady friend.”

Bobby taps his fingers against his arms, squinting at the pair of them.

“Uh-huh.”

 

He suddenly snatches a roll of papers up from his desk, brandishing it at them.

“Well, you’re not usin’ my library as a hideout. Get out of here. Git!”

He aims a smack with the roll of parchment at Dean’s head, and he ducks just in time, nearly falling backwards in surprise. Sam claps a hand over his mouth, giggling. Bobby scowls.

“You too, boy. Books will be here tomorrow.”

He raises the parchment again threateningly, but Sam grabs Dean’s elbow and pulls him towards the door, Dean remembering to grab his gloves just in time. The two of them fall out into the hall, barely able to contain their laughter.

 

Dean leans back against the wall, pressing a hand to his side, trying to catch his breath. His cheeks hurt, and there's a lightness in his chest, loosening some of the fear and worry that had lodged itself there over the past week. 

“Well...I have to say.”

Dean shakes his head, grinning at his brother.

“If that man is staying around, maybe living here won’t be so bad.”

Sam snorts.

“You might change your mind. Mother wants him to be our tutor.”

 

Dean groans, sinking his head back against the wall. He had never imagined becoming a king would saddle him with so many _lessons._

 

 

Sam claps him on the shoulder, a smile on his face.

"Come on. I know what'll cheer you up."

Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam grins.

"I found a shorter path to the kitchens."

 

 

It's chaos below, cooks chopping and frying and stirring like mad to get ready for the feast tonight, but they manage to slip in, weaving in between the frantic action to steal some of the cooling pastries set out for dessert. A shout follows them as they escape with their spoils, fleeing to the courtyard where they sit on the grass in the sun, licking their fingers of honey and tart fruit, laughing and joking together.

 

The bells toll out over the yard, the warning for the beginning of the feast. Sam looks up, and sighs.

“I think that’s our cue."

He gets lost again as they enter the castle, but with Sam's help they quickly find the main hall again, heading up to the second landing and their rooms.

Sam raises his hand in a halfhearted wave.

“See you at the feast.”

 

x

 

 

Dean tosses his riding gloves aside and flops back on the bed behind him.

He blows out a breath, staring at the ceiling.

 

Despite his disastrous performance last night, Mother insisted he attend tonight as well. Still 'informal', she assured him. How many informal feasts can one have? Dean's starting to think his life will be nothing but feasts and balls and stilted dinners.

 

Dean groans, throwing an arm over his face. Another night of inane conversation and false courtesies. He doesn’t know how long he can stand this.

 

Then he feels a rush of shame, and sits up, chastising himself. He shouldn’t be acting like this—like a spoiled child. He should take this relocation in stride, should put up a brave face and stop complaining. It’s what a king would do.

Dean wonders if Father would’ve liked this place.

 

He glances around. His new room is much larger than the one he had back home, spacious and richly furnished. They told him this had been a spare room during his uncle’s reign, but in Dean's opinion, it’s lavish enough for a king. The featherbed takes up nearly half the room, and he has a dresser, as well as his own pitcher and washbasin. A faded tapestry embroidered with a coat of arms lines one wall, a large window set in the other. The afternoon sun streams in, and Dean can see out, all the way to the forest and the lake beyond.

If he’s being honest, it’s a good room, and definitely better than the one he had before.

But it still doesn’t feel like his.

 

Dean pushes away from the soft furs on his bed, moving towards the dresser. Most of his things have been brought up and deposited, some still en route from Laurence—resulting in him not knowing where half his belongings are anymore—but this is something he made sure this stayed with him at all times.

Dean runs a hand over the top of the old box, and opens the lid, smiling as he pulls out the bow.

An old bow, chipped and scratched in some places—but it's his favorite, strong hickory from Laurence with a rawhide string.

 

He brings it back to his bed, along with oil and a scrap of cloth, and starts to polish the old wood, running the rag over it until it shines. Dean hopes he'll have a chance to use it sometime this week.

 

_Hunting? A voice repeats._

 

_Barbaric, another whispers._

 

Dean’s hands tighten on the bow.

 

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Dean exhales, his shoulders slumping.

“Come in.”

 

The door creaks open, and Mary slips in, her hair shining like gold in the late afternoon light.

She pauses at the doorway, hesitating. Dean clears his throat.

"Dean, I—"

"I'm sorry—"

They both stop, and Mary laughs, closing the door behind her.

"I suppose we're both here to apologize."

Dean rubs the back of his neck.

"I suppose."

 

Mary smiles slightly, then crosses over, reaching out. She curls Dean into an embrace, one hand on his head, the other around his shoulders. Despite everything, Dean goes willingly, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent. He'll never underestimate his mother's ability to make him feel like he's four years old again, scabby-kneed and carefree, running through the halls of Laurence Manor.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Mary whispers, stroking through his hair. "I know this is difficult."

Dean breathes in slow, fighting against the burning in his throat.

"I'm sorry, too," he mumbles. "I behaved horribly."

Mary chuckles, planting a kiss in his hair. 

"I expected as much."

Dean pulls back from her, affronted.

"Mother!"

She laughs.

"Dean, I'm surprised you acted as well as you did. Some of these people..."

She trails off, placing a hand over her eyes. Dean bites back a laugh. 

Mary waves the hand away, shaking her head.

"Dean, we always raised you and Sam to speak your mind. I've had far more practice in holding my tongue." She places a hand on his shoulder. "So please know. I'm not angry with you Dean. I'm just asking you to try to make the best of it."

Dean sobers, fiddling with the bow in his hands.

"I understand."

 

Mary's eyes fall to the bow, and she chuckles.

“Back with that old thing again?”

She holds out a hand, and Dean hands her the bow, sitting back to watch the master at work.

 

Mary hefts the bow, smoothing her hands over the wood. She holds it up, as if to aim, pulling back the string, one eye sliding closed.

Then she slides back into Mary, Queen Regent, and the bow is a bow again, as she hands it out to him, ordinary as ever.

 

“Good balance,” she says. Dean nods.

“Father helped me make it,” he says softly.

Mary doesn’t respond. She just lets Dean take the bow from her hands.

 

Dean places it gently back in its case, and starts to clean up his materials.

“You need a haircut.”

Dean squints up at her, scowling.

“Mother,” he mumbles, but stays still as Mary starts to comb his hair back into place, fussing with his collar.

 

“There will be several young ladies at the feast tonight,” she says lightly. Dean sighs, and Mary squeezes his shoulder. 

“I know. Try to be nice this time.”

Dean huffs under his breath, struggling not to roll his eyes. He's starting to think that he'll meet every young eligible bachelorette in Daughton before the week is out.

 

“Mother, you know I can’t stand these court girls.” He rises, holding the case.

“They’ve been trained just to smile at me, and then do whatever I say,” he says irritably. “Last night, I asked one to recount the latest book she read and she couldn’t manage to think of a single title.”

“Dean,” Mary chastises gently, shaking her head. Dean relents, smiling.

“Not all them are perfect as you,” he teases.

“Oh, hush,” she says, her cheeks turning pink.

 

Dean laughs, and tucks the box safely away, back into its drawer.

Mary is now moving amongst his things, tsking.

“I told them to set out your formalwear,” she says. “Is it so hard to get things done when I ask?”

She opens one of the trunks and pulls out one of Dean’s most hated outfits, a gaudy doublet that pinches his neck.

“The red, I think,” she says.

“Mother,” Dean groans, but Mary ignores him, laying the doublet on his bed.

“Now,” Mary says. “The ring.”

“What?”

“My ring.” She reaches up, unclasping the chain around her neck. On it is a delicate golden band, and Mary holds it out to him.

“I want you to bring this with you tonight.”

Dean stutters.

“Mother, no—you can’t expect me to propose to someone on the very night I meet them—“

“Your father did,” Mary says lightly.

Dean scowls, crossing his arms. Mary smiles, a teasing tone in her voice.

“Ohhh, I remember it like it was yesterday…”

“I’ve heard this story a hundred times,” Dean protests, but not too strongly. He’ll never admit it, but he loves this story. It gives him a kind of hope.

“We danced all night,” Mary says. “No one expected him to pay me any mind, stranger as I was.”

She holds out a hand and Dean huffs, but accepts, hiding a smile. Mary laughs, bowing slightly.

Dean grins, turning her slowly. Mary settles her hand on his shoulder, her eyes sparkling.

 

“It was not a prudent match, and my father told me as much.” Something in her eyes softens. “But we were in love.”

Dean tries to follow her steps, but something in his throat grows tight. Mary slowly brings them to a stop.

“You get more like him every day,” she says softly.

 

Dean swallows, looking down at his feet. Mary gently squeezes his shoulder.

“Bring it, please,” she says, holding out the ring. “Just in case.”

Dean looks at her outstretched hand for a moment, then covers it with his own, taking the ring.

“Alright,” he says, tucking it into his pocket.

 

Mary smiles, and picks up his outfit, placing it in his hands.

“You ought to change.” She steps back towards the door, throwing back one last parting gift. “Guests will be arriving soon!”

And with that she’s gone.

Dean exhales, dropping back down on his bed.

 

    

 

It goes exactly as he expects.

Endless food, endless dancing—Dean’s feet are hurting abysmally, and he’s itching to get out of this room. But Mother insisted he dance with every lady who attended, and Dean does his rightful duty—and takes a turn with every last one of them, even though it brings him little pleasure.

There are some that are quite beautiful, after all, Dean’s not blind—but none that he really _connects_ with. One prattled on about her passion for jousts for nearly half an hour, one claimed a love for poetry but could not name a single poet—and there had been one girl, towards the end—a tiny red-haired thing who made salacious comments under her breath, looking like she wanted to eat him alive.

 

Dean finally shakes off the last girl and makes a beeline for the table of food and refreshments, eager to escape. Benny, of course, finds him immediately.

He claps Dean heartily on the back, grinning toothily.

“Alright, brother?”

Dean takes up a goblet of wine, drinking deep.

“As much as I can be,” he says, knowing how bitter he sounds.

Benny laughs, a deep good-natured sound.

“Aw, cheer up, Prince. I’m sure you’ll soon find your lady love.”

When he sees the look on Dean’s face, Benny laughs again, and stands, beckoning.

“Alright, come on. Out to the garden with you. Leave the dancing behind for a little while.”

Dean sets down his glass, groaning in relief.

“Benny, you always say the right thing.”

 

Another quirk of the people of Daughton—eight in the evening is considered extravagantly late, meaning most of their guests are ready to depart, staying inside, in the warmth. But outside, another kind of party is forming. Those who accompanied them from Laurence and the lowerborn from Daughton, now done with their duties, are starting their own celebration out on the grounds. One man has pulled out a fiddle, another a pipe and tabor—and the lively music floats over the crowds, so different from the stuffy elegance inside the hall. A few children dance, barefoot in the grass, laughing and singing to the music. 

Dean and Benny step out through the bay doors into the cool night, and Dean feels his mood lift instantly.

They walk through the crowds, many hailing and greeting them as they pass. Dean raises a hand, smiling. Some he knows, those who had followed his mother’s court and moved to this new land with them, mostly men at arms and ladies in waiting—but there are as many new faces as old, who ignore them as they pass. Dean realizes, with a thrill, that he can pass through the crowd unrecognized. No judgmental glares, no whispered comments. Out here, with the commonfolk, he's free.

There's plentiful food and drink, most people sitting at the long tables outside, becoming gayer and more boisterous with every cup of ale. Dean hardly touched his dinner, a strange dish of pickled squid—but here he finds all his favorites—roast potatoes and good mutton, great loaves of black bread with creamy butter and honey, and the two of them sit at the corner of a table with a few of Benny's men-at-arms, and they eat until Dean feels like he’s bursting. The minstrels play and the men sing, dogs barking happily around their ankles as they toast their glasses to the health of the prince and the gaiety of the kingdom.

 

Sam appears, looking pink and ruffled, just as the sun bids goodnight, everything settling into a warm dusk.

“And where might you have been?” Dean asks, pouring him a cup of wine.

Sam scowls, trying to comb his hair back into place.

“With you gone, every lady suddenly decided they’d rather dance with _me_ ,” he complains.

Benny grins, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“One of them catch your eye, then, Samuel?”

Sam snorts, and shoves him off.

“Not likely. They’re all saving themselves for His Majesty over there,” he says, jerking his head towards his brother.

Dean’s grin falters.

 

The sound of a trumpet cuts through the moment, and the three of them turn. Mary has arrived, her handmaidens in tow. All of the revelers immediately hush. For some of them, it's the first time they've seen the new queen. She calls for attention.

"I hope you'll all pardon my lateness," she says, smiling at the assembled crowd. "I had a previous engagement that prevented me from attending the real feast."

A roll of laughter waves through the crowd, some whooping. Mary smiles, reaching out a hand.

“Dean, my child,” she says, beckoning him forward. “Your mother wishes to give you a gift.”

 

The crowd murmurs, most looking around, trying to spot the prince in their midst. Dean stands, and a few of the women near him gasp, unaware they had been sitting so close to a prince. Dean keeps his eyes straight ahead as he walks up the soft path, and kneels at her feet.

“I know your birthday is not for another fortnight," she says. "But you will soon be a king.” She signals to her handmaidens, who bring forward a flat black box. “And a king deserves only the finest.”

 

She smiles, and opens the box.

Dean steps up, his eyes going wide. Mary lifts the bow, and a hush falls over the crowd. It’s a sleek black, carved from birch. The smallest engraved flowers flow up its side, intertwined with mother of pearl inlays, so tiny as to not disturb the balance and craftsmanship of the bow. It’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen.

Dean gently takes the bow from her, turning it over in his hands. For a moment he cannot find his voice; he’s simply awed by its beauty.

“Thank you,” he breathes.

 

He takes up Mary’s hand and kisses it. “Thank you, Mother.”

Mary smiles.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” she says.

The music start up again, and the crowd disperses, going back to their merriments. Mary pats his cheek.

“Anyone catch your eye tonight?” She asks, eyes twinkling.

Dean feels his cheeks burn, and he drops his gaze.

He doesn't answer her, merely pulls the ring from his pocket, returning it to her.

 

Mary looks down, and sighs.

"I'm sorry, my love," she murmurs. 

She lifts his head up, meeting his eyes.

“And I do not wish to dampen your celebration, but don’t forget. When you come of age, you must marry. Even I cannot slow the passage of time.”

Dean swallows, his cheeks coloring. If the laws permitted it, he believes he could stand being alone. He even is starting to think he can bear the weight of the crown. But he can’t stand the disappointment he sees in his mother’s eyes.

 

Mary kisses his cheek, and soon after, she gracefully takes her leave, leaving the youngsters to their wine and their revels.

A few men and women catch his ear as he makes his way through the crowd, toasting his upcoming birthday and fawning over the magnificent bow. Dean is as gracious as he can be, but his mother's parting words have left his heart heavy.

He makes his way slowly back to Benny and Sam as the stars spill out above them, shining over the revelers as they continue on, laughing and drinking. Several men have taken up a song, swaying back and forth in time to the music, happily spilling wine as they sing. Dean sinks back down next to Benny, where a small crowd has gathered. A pretty maiden with golden hair sits in their midst, speaking animatedly.

“Up on his mountain high, he waits...and plots...and hatches his plans.” She stands slowly, turning amongst her rapt audience, her voice lowering in dramatic flair. “Mad Michael, the terror of the north!” She seizes one of the girls and she shrieks, then breaks out into giggles. The crowd roars with laughter.

“Tell us the tale, Jo!” Someone cries.

Jo takes up a wine pitcher, holding it aloft.

“On the midnight wind, he comes,” she cries. “They say he’s a sorcerer, not quite man, not quite sane.” She stops, voice hushed. “They say he can transform himself, into a great bird, with talons sharp as steel.”

Jo takes an empty cup and fills it, deftly smacking the hand of a man who tried to grab her in the process.

“So beware, beware those woods,” she continues. “For things are not always what they seem.”

Dean can’t listen anymore. He stands, going off to sit by himself, Jo’s story fading behind him.

 

Night falls, utterly and completely, a thick blanket of darkness that falls over the gardens, bringing the chill with it. Most of the crowd begin to depart, going back to the castle or leaving for the village. Yet Dean still sits melancholy, away from the others, moody and preoccupied. None dare speak to him until Benny approaches, and suggests they go hunting. Dean immediately perks up.

“Yes,” he says. “When the moon is high. I will try my new bow.”

 

They set out a short while later, setting off for the forest. Despite the nobles' distaste for the sport, the men of the castle took no offense to the idea, and readily volunteered to join the hunting party. As he rides, Dean feels himself leaving the castle behind—not just the bricks and mortar, but all the stress and worry along with it. It's stripped away and he's free. Dean decides he does not care what anyone in Daughton says—hunting is his legacy, passed down to him from a long line, and it's what he loves, more than anything. Riding with the wind through the dark, only your bow and your wits, matched up against the dark wild of the forest—

It’s almost like a dream, an enchanted world, where anything might happen.

 

The path is hard and compact underneath the horses’ hooves, and they push the animals, running neck and neck, until the trees become too thick and they pull up, reaching the edge of the woods. Dean dares not enter in this darkness, for fear of the horses losing their footing, but points instead to the line of trees.

“There. We’ll continue on foot.”

 

He pauses, aware of the sudden silence behind him. He turns in his saddle.

Most of the hunting party now looks uneasy, some of the men shooting dark glances towards the woods.

“Begging your pardon, sire,” one says—Andrew, Dean remembers. “But we dare not go near those trees.”

Dean frowns, turning Chevre’s head to face them.

“And why not?”

A couple mutters, the horses shifting anxiously, eager to be moving again.

“It’s...it’s because—”

“They’re cursed,” another says flatly. “It’s well known, all through Daughton. No one enters the woods. Not if you wish to survive.”

Dean glances over at Benny, then laughs.

“You can’t be serious.”

He recalls the maiden's tale, of the cursed forest, but he didn't think it was something they  _actually_ believed. There's no such thing.

 

He tells them as much, but the men stare back, stone-faced. Dean’s smile fades as he realizes the extent of their determination. He sets his jaw.

“Fine,” he says crisply. “As you wish.”

He turns Chevre’s head, digging in his heels to coax her into a trot.

 

The men fall in behind him, and soon the talk and laughter returns. Benny rides up beside Dean, their eyes meeting. Just the look on his face is already putting Dean in a better mood.

Benny snorts, lowering his voice.

“Cursed,” he mutters. “Never known trees to harm a man. Unless he’s a fool and isn’t watching where he’s riding.”

Dean laughs, tipping back his head. He has never been so grateful for his friend's humor. It's making the strange differences in Daughton seem almost bearable.

They continue on, until they reach a meadow where the trees are less thick, and where the Daughton men say the game is the best.

 

Dean soon relaxes into the familiar thrill of the hunt. His new bow shoots like a dream, and he takes a rabbit not twenty minutes in. Benny teases him for its puny size, and Dean grins, the challenge accepted. Even Sam manages to take a fox, despite their quickness and his own clumsiness with a bow. Dean almost allows himself to forget, pretending he's back in the rolling fields of Laurence, just like before.

 

He does not notice how much time has passed until one of the men pulls up, calling to him.

“It grows late, my prince!”

 

Dean glances up. The height of the moon tells him it’s near the witching hour. He already has a fine stag as his prize, but something in him does not yet want to go back.

 

He canters around, before pulling up to a halt, facing the rest of the hunting party.

“Those who wish to return may,” he says, glancing at Benny. “But I wish to go on.”

“As do I,” Sam says instantly. Benny gives them both a knowing look.

“Aye, and I’m just going to let the crown princes wander off by themselves,” he says gruffly. “I’ll stay, too.”

Dean nods.

“The rest may go.”

Some of the men exchange glances, but most turn their horses and start their way back to the castle. The sound of their hooves fade, and the three of them are left alone.

 

“Where to, sire?” Benny asks, his eyes twinkling.

Dean laughs.

“If you insist on calling me sire, than I shall have to call you Benjamin.”

Benny scowls.

“Fair enough, brother,” he drawls, turning his palomino. “Lead on.”

 

Dean leans forward in his saddle, patting Chevre’s neck. He glances to the right, his gaze once again drawn to the dark woods.

There isn’t much to see against the thick tree trunks, but Dean can see the faint silvery reflection of the moon on what must be a lake.

“I think there’s a lake up ahead.”

The three of them ride at an easy pace, the grasses of the meadow giving way to patches of brush and trees, growing thicker, where they finally reach the edge of the water.

 

It’s magnificent, the largest lake Dean’s ever seen—he cannot see the shore on the other side, only darkness. The woods stretch the whole length of it, trees silently keeping vigil on the shore.

They come to a stop, and Dean watches the black water, the moon’s pale orb rippling on its surface. Suddenly, he wishes to be alone.

 

He starts to dismount.

“I think I’ll stay here,” Dean says quietly.

He sees Benny and Sam exchange a brief look, but thankfully, they don’t question him. Instead they murmur their assent, and then start off at a slight canter around the edge of the lake.

Dean pats Chevre’s nose and turns her loose. She tosses her head and trots over to the small patch of grass by the edge of the wood, her coat shining in the pale light.

Dean smiles slightly as he watches her, then turns back to the shimmering lake.

 

The moon shines so brightly that he can see everything illuminated before him, as if it were day. It’s beautiful, really. His old home was more central in their country—land-locked and hot, full of grasses and plenty of game—but he finds he loves this quiet stillness too. He hears the cry of a bird, the hum of insects, dancing along the water’s edge, the gentle lap of waves against the shore.

Yet even as he stands here, taking in the beauty around him, his thoughts return to his impending marriage.

 

Dean kneels, fingers slipping over rough rock and wet dirt. How could he be expected to love when it was something he did not understand?

He straightens, casting a stone into the lake’s dark depths.

The elusive specter of love. His parents had called it their friend for many years. He sees courtiers claim to be its slaves, poets writing sonnets in its name, but Dean isn’t sure that he himself will ever find it. Because, deep down, Dean still holds onto the childish belief that somewhere, his true love exists. But he’s not sure if they’ll ever meet.

He sighs, turning his eyes back up to the moon.

 

Then, a noise.

 

Dean whips his head around, a hand dropping to the knife sheathed on his belt.

He doesn’t see it at first, but then again, there—movement across the lake. Dean frowns, moving closer. Just around the curve of the lake, on the other side of the wood, someone all in white, disappearing into the trees.

 

Dean stands frozen for a moment, bewildered. A person, in the forest? His mind briefly flicks to the curse before he dismisses it as nonsense. Perhaps it's another hunter, like himself. 

He remains still, debating. But the mystery proves too strong, and Dean grabs his bow and heads toward the silent woods, swallowing his fear. He’s not a coward, and besides. They're only trees.

 

He steps into the forest.

 

An immediate hush falls over him, every outside noise fading away. The leaves above him are thick, but strips of moonlight find their way through, enough that he has no trouble seeing his path. It’s absolutely still, but Dean has no doubt. This place is _alive_.

Dean holds his bow at the ready, wondering again if he had made a mistake. Maybe he hadn’t really seen anything at all. Besides, what sort of person would live so far out? Dean hadn’t seen a settlement in miles—most villagers preferred to be as close to the castle as possible. Perhaps a gypsy clan? He must remember to ask Bobby tomorrow.

That is, if he can find his way out.

 

Dean walks past another tree, frowning. It looks the same as all the rest. His feet are starting to ache, and there’s a sharp pain in his side, making it hard for him to breathe. He does not know how long he has been walking.

 

He is rueing his stupidity, contemplating stopping and taking a rest, when there's the snap of a twig behind him.

Dean whips around, raising his bow. 

 

His keen instincts tell him, there's something—just there—just hidden at the edge of the clearing.

 

 

“Who are you?” He calls out. “Show yourself!”

 

A beat, but then there's a rustle of movement, and what steps out from behind the trees is the very last thing Dean expects.

 

A tall man, with hair dark as ebony, and peculiar from his head to his toes. He wears a white tunic, a pitiful thing that’s in rags, torn and ripped—and he’s staring at Dean with a piercing blue gaze that shows no sign of fear.

 

Dean quickly lowers his bow.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says. “You startled me.”

The man’s eyes drop to the bow in Dean’s hands, then flick back up to his face.

“You lower your weapon so soon?” He tilts his head. “Perhaps I am your enemy.”

The man’s voice is deeper than Dean expected, and his words even more so.

Dean eyes him warily.

“Are you my enemy?” He challenges.

“No,” the man says, a glint in his eye.

Dean has the strangest urge to laugh. What an odd answer.

The man steps closer, out from the branches and into the small clearing. His movements are strange, fluid, not quite human. They seem vaguely familiar, but Dean can’t put his finger on it.

He thinks for a moment, then makes his decision.

“I will take you at your word, sir,” he says, shouldering his bow. “I hope I do not regret it.”

 

Benny would chide Dean for lowering his guard so soon, but Dean is not afraid. If anything, he’s calmer in the presence of this stranger, a small comfort to be with someone else in this dark maze of a forest.

 

“Do you live in a village near here?” Dean asks him, looking around curiously.

The man shakes his head.

“No.”

“Are you here alone?” Dean asks.

“No,” the man says again, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.

Dean purses his lips, a flash of irritation heating his tone.

“You know, there’s a wealth of words in the world. You’d do well to use more of them,” he says.

A peculiar twinkle comes to the stranger’s eyes.

 

“I’ll try to remember that,” he murmurs.

 

Dean holds the man’s gaze for a moment, as if waiting for him to say something else. But the man is silent, merely watching Dean. He’s almost...studying him.

Dean swallows, unnerved under the scrutiny. Not afraid, merely...unsettled.

 

“I...do not wish to trouble you,” he says haltingly. “But I’m rather lost.”

Dean looks around, but the forest is twisting and dense, every path looking the same.

But the man just nods.

“The wood can be treacherous,” he says softly.

He walks past Dean, inclining his head.

“Come.” He glances back. “I will show you the way.”

 

Dean hesitates. The stranger said Dean was not his enemy, but that is no reason for trust.

After all, he _did_ say he wasn’t here alone. Perhaps he is a thief, ready to lure Dean into a trap. But after a moment of debate, Dean realizes he has no other choice. He really is lost. Damn his curiosity.

Besides, he has his bow, and a dagger hidden in his belt. He can protect himself if the need arises.

 

The man starts walking off through the trees, and Dean hastily follows, falling into step beside him.

“A little late to be wandering around the forest,” Dean says. The man tilts his head.

“I could say the same to you.”

It’s an impertinent comment. Dean raises an eyebrow, but the man doesn’t seem to notice the slight. He continues, moving noisily over the thick dirt of the forest floor. Dean notices that he’s barefoot.

“Who are you?” The man asks.

He speaks with a rich and rough voice, the dark earth spilling over the night.

 

Dean isn't surprised, but eager.

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”

And very rude. Dean surprisingly finds it refreshing after the decorum of the court.

He bites his lip, uncertain if he should reveal his identity to this stranger. After all, his mother said—

“I am Dean,” he blurts. “Winchester.”

Oh, damn.

“Dean of Winchester,” the man repeats slowly. Dean shakes his head.

“No, that’s not—“

He cuts off. The man is looking at him curiously, his head tilted. Dean waves a hand.

“Not important. But surely you heard of my family? Coming to court?”

The man does not look at him, instead making his way masterfully over the uneven ground.

“I did not.”

“You're not serious. Nothing?”

The man raises an eyebrow. Dean flushes. He knew some of the outlying villages were rural, but he assumed they would have sent envoys out to every town. He had assumed people would actually want to know who rules them.

“We’re the new royal family,” he says.

The stranger stops suddenly.

“Oh.”

He’s frozen, silhouetted against the trees, and there’s something strangely like sorrow in his eyes. Dean narrows his eyes.

 

“Is this a trick?” He says eventually.

 

The man blinks.

“What?”

He seems so genuinely taken aback, that Dean relaxes slightly. He knows he’s not like the men his mother warned him about.

“Nothing,” Dean says hastily. “It's just—not all are overjoyed at our arrival.” He fingers the handle of his knife. “There are those who would gladly see us deposed. Or killed,” he says grimly.

That flash of pain again. Dean frowns, fighting against the urge to ask.

After a moment, the man dips his head.

“I understand,” he says softly. Then he begins to walk again.

 

Dean follows.

 

“So you really don’t know who I am,” he mutters, almost to himself.

The man turns, and gives him a curious smile.

“You are Dean of Winchester. And you are lost.”

 

Dean finds himself returning the smile. The man is strange—no doubt, but Dean finds he prefers his company to any of the people he’s met so far in Daughton.

 

“Well, I don’t think you can blame me.”

He chuckles, following the man as he dips under a low-hanging branch.

“For anyone to find their way in here it would be—“

He straightens, and sees the same fallen log at the water’s edge, and Chevre grazing a little ways off.

“—a miracle,” Dean finishes dumbly.

He looks back just in time to see a smug smile, before the man’s face slips back to neutral.

“Thank you,” Dean says shortly. The man merely inclines his head.

For a moment, they stare at each other, not speaking. Then, from behind him, the approaching sound of hooves. Dean glances over his shoulder.

“That’ll be my brother,” he grumbles. “And he’ll have to say something about the state of my clothes, that’s for certain—“

He cuts off when he turns, and sees no one there. The man is gone, as if he vanished into thin air.

 

It’s only on the ride home, Sam and Benny bickering on either side of him, when Dean realizes he did not ask him his name.

 

 

 

Dean dreams of wings.

He cannot seem to shake his strange encounter all day. He’s restless, fidgeting through his lessons with Bobby, distracted during the midday meal with his brother.

There’s nothing else to be done. He has to go back. He must find the strange man and ask him his name.

 

He slips out to the stables and saddles up, pulling himself up onto Chevre’s back. Normally, going outside the walls would require an escort of men to accompany him, but Dean lies and says he’s not going far, just a short circuit to stretch Chevre’s legs. The stablehand believes him, and Dean sets out alone.

The ride is not short, but pleasant, a crisp clear day. The light will help, Dean thinks. He must have missed a town, some sort of village that had passed unnoticed in the dark of night.

 

He clears the outskirts of the towns, turning onto the path leading up to the woods. The curving trail meets the lake about a mile ahead, and Dean pulls Chevre into a trot along the shore, her reflection shimmering in the water.

 

The thick hum of gadflies fills the air, the insects buzzing lazily in the thicket of weeds that grow along the lake. There’s not a cloud in the sky, the sun relentless. Sweat runs down Dean's neck, to his back and under his tunic. He had circled the entire lake, but had seen nothing, no settlements, no villages. He had even brought a map with him to consult, but so far it's been useless.

Dean finds a small patch of shade and dismounts, patting Chevre’s neck. She whickers, and turns away from him, to investigate a particularly juicy looking tuft of grass. Dean exhales, and sits down on the shore, peering out over the water.

 

Not a sign, not one person, not _anything_. The whole exercise had been a waste. The only sign of civilization had been an old castle, up on the hill, but it has to be abandoned. The place looks like it about to crumble into pieces—it can’t possibly be where the strange man in white lives.

 

The soft sound of hooves behind him, and Dean nearly falls as Chevre nudges his head, sniffing at him. Dean laughs softly, petting her nose.

“Here.”

He pulls an apple from his pack, and sets to slicing it, offering them up to Chevre. She snaps them up, chewing happily. Dean smiles, running a hand over her shiny black coat.

“Am I crazy, Chevre?” He asks softly. “I’m starting to think it was all a dream.”

She just whinnies, nudging his hand again, searching for more apple.

Dean chuckles.

“Thought as much.”

 

Dean stays for a little while after, trying to put the man from last night out of his head. Sam might wish to see the castle. Perhaps they could take a day, investigate the ruins.

Dean leans back against the tree, watching a flock of swans drifting serenely across the surface of the water.

 

They will be missing him back at the castle, Dean thinks. He leads his horse back to the path, trying to put the mystery of the lake behind him.

 

 

 

x

 

 

 

“Nice hit.”

 

Dean lowers his bow, eyeing the target critically.

The tip of the arrow struck just inside the painted line. Dean allows himself a small smile.

“Your turn.”

 

Dean steps aside and Sam lifts his own bow, nocking an arrow to the string.

“Elbow a little higher,” Dean says.

Sam gives him a look, but obeys, lifting his arm slightly. He looses, and the arrows sails through the air, hitting the target with a dull thud.

Dean smiles, glad his brother decided to humor him. He needed some distracting, after his fruitless morning, and Sam, for once, took him up on the offer to practice with the bow. Sam doesn’t shoot nearly half as well as Dean, preferring the broadsword above all. He’s only seventeen, but he regularly knocks Dean onto his back in their sparring sessions.

 

A servant scuttles forward, resetting the target as Dean steps up to the mark again.

 

Dean plants his feet,  pulling back the string until his hand is underneath his chin, the string touching his nose and lips.

His mother had chosen well. The pull of the bow is tight, but he’s shooting better than ever. They’ll be feasting on venison for quite some time, thanks to Dean and his bow.

 

He closes one eye, taking careful aim, when Sam speaks.

 

“Adam is seeing things again.”

Dean pauses.

“Is that so?”

 

The presence of Adam at the court of Daughton had been the source of some contention over the past couple of weeks. Many had advised the queen against it, saying it was not proper, and could offend the members of the court. Mary had smiled sweetly, and told them to prepare Adam a room in the castle.

The boy had been skittish and quiet ever since the move. However out of place Dean feels, he knows Adam is feeling it tenfold.

“What is it now?” Dean asks, focusing again on the target.

Sam fingers the string on his bow, letting it go with a sharp _snap._

“Last night, at the hunt.” He shakes his head, long hair falling in his face. “He swears he saw a child in the trees, dressed all in white.”

 

Dean misses the target by nearly a foot.

 

Sam stares at the quivering arrow, then looks back to his brother.

“Dean?”

Dean lowers his bow, his mind whirling.

Sam gives him a curious look.

“Dean,” he says again. “What did you see?”

 

Dean wants to tell him, but something stops his tongue. A strange selfish part of him wants to keep the mystery to himself.

But finally he gives in, telling Sam about his own encounter with the strange man in the woods.

 

Sam shakes his head when he finishes, his brow furrowed.

“None of the other men saw anything,” he says slowly. “Perhaps you only thought—?”

“I spoke with him, Sam,” Dean says impatiently. “He’s real.”

 

Sam purses his lips. He darts a quick look over to the servingmen, and lowers his voice.

“Then I don’t think we should go back there,” he says. “It could be dangerous.”

 

Dean frowns.

“Sam—”

But Sam is insistent.

“You know what Mother said,” he whispers under his breath. “There are eyes everywhere. Some just waiting for an opportunity.”

Dean frowns.

“It wasn’t like that,” he starts, but Sam just shakes his head.

“Benny was right,” he says firmly. “Staying inside the castle until your coronation is the best idea.”

 

He picks up his bow again, then pauses, looking down at the carved wood.

“I think I’m finished for today.”

Sam hands the bow off to a servant and pulls off his archery gloves, heading back to the castle. Dean watches him go, then sighs, dragging a hand over his face.

 

“Sire?”

 

Dean looks up bluntly. The servant is hovering uncertainly.

“Is my lord finished?” He asks.

 

Dean glances over his shoulder, at the clumsily painted target.

 

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

 

He pulls another arrow from the quiver, his fingers brushing through the delicate feathers of the fletching.

 

He nocks the arrow, pulls back the string, and aims.

 

 

This time, he hits dead center.

 

 

x

 

 

After dinner, Dean retires to his room, calling for some hot water. He scrubs until he’s red and raw, pink cheeked and shivering in the steaming bath. Another luxury, one that Dean finds quite enjoyable.

He retreats to his bed, but as he lies there, willing himself to sleep, he finds it just won’t come.

Dean calls for some wine, to perhaps soothe him into rest, but he finds it only makes him more anxious.

 

Sam couldn’t be right about the forest. He just couldn’t.

 

He’s not innocent—he knows the dangers that lurk for him outside the castle walls, even more numerous now that he is considered a royal in a world that has not yet accepted him—but Dean knows how he felt in those woods.

 

Tomorrow. He’ll go again tomorrow.

 

Dean rolls over, watching the night sky through his window, curtains fluttering softly in the breeze.

Deep down, he just knows—if he didn’t solve the mystery of the man in the forest, he would be missing out on something. Something important.

 

 

 

x

 

 

Dean awakes, eager and refreshed the next morning. He dresses quickly, impatient. This time he will explore the forest fully, comb it over for any sign of life.

He bolts down a quick breakfast, and pushes back his chair—when one of the advisors appears at his elbow, informing him of the schedule for the day.  
“First, a fitting for your coronation robes,” he says briskly, scratching at the parchment with a quill. “Then an elocution lesson, and after that—”  
“I'm sorry,” Dean interrupts.  “What did you say?”  
The advisor—Crowley—purses his lips. A small tyrant of a man, who somehow managed to retain his position from the previous court. Dean loathes him.

“The queen regent has concerns about your speech,” Crowley says curtly.

“Really,” Dean says, incensed. He knows his mother would say no such thing, and the fact that this man has the gall, the audacity to suggest such a thing—

“Where is she?” Dean demands, standing. “If she has concerns, het her tell me herself—”

Crowley coughs, an irritating little sound.

“The queen regent is busy.”  
Dean fumes, glaring at him.

“If you think you can—”

“I do not have time for this,” Crowley says, snatching up his papers. “The fitters will be here shortly.”

 

He sweeps away before Dean can say another word.

 

And so he’s forced to sit through a day of monotony, standing still for hours as the royal fitters hover over him, then keep his mouth shut as an insipid woman gives him a grand speech, insinuating that Dean’s ‘coarser’ accent will not endear him to the locals, and that he should strive for the ‘more perfect’ sound of Daughton. Dean nearly gets up and walks out of the hall.

 

But he grits his teeth, and stays. If his mother really _does_ want him here, then he’ll respect her wishes. He doesn't believe it for one second—but he _is_ trying to go along with what is asked of him, no matter how foolish. And it doesn’t mean he has to enjoy it.

 

It’s only after he starts dressing for dinner is when they inform him they've arranged a private dinner for him with a young Daughton lady and her parents.

His hands freeze where they’re buttoning up his tunic. The servant bows meekly, and quickly shows himself out.

Dean stares at his reflection, and makes an incredibly stupid and reckless decision.

 

He quickly dons his hunting jacket. He doesn’t bother with his bow this time, instead strapping his knife to his belt. He crosses to the door and locks it, almost giddy with the idea of what he's about to do. 

He had discovered the slight ledge under his window a couple days prior, when he was trying to escape from Bobby and his mutterings about the histories of dead kings. Dean pulls himself over the windowsill, dropping down softly on the ledge. He shivers in the night air, his blood singing with the thrill, the forbidden sweetness of it. 

The castle is old stone and wood, providing Dean plenty of footholds, and a short while later he drops to the ground, listening for any sounds.

 

It’s quiet.

 

Dean steals away, creeping silently to the stables, saddling up Chevre under the cover of darkness. The distance to the lake isn’t far, but with Dean’s anticipation and the quiet of the night, it feels like ages.

 

 

 

He reaches the edge of the wood, and dismounts, tethering Chevre to one of the trees. She paws the ground, tossing her head.

“Easy, girl, easy,” Dean coos. “I’ll be fine.”

He faces the trees, taking a deep breath.

He goes in.

 

It’s just as before. The trees are dark and silent, the quiet hum of life and power vibrating in the air. Dean swallows thickly, wishing he had something other than the moon to light his way.

And yet, Dean feels as if the path is slightly more familiar. He’s starting to recognize the differences in the trees—and yes, this is the clearing he passed through, right before he came on the man in white. It’s as if the wood is guiding him, the path straighter, the trees showing him the way.

Dean pushes aside a branch, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.

“You are trespassing.”

 

Dean whips around, dropping his hand to his knife. The source of the voice moves forward from the shadows, towering over Dean. Everything about him is dark, from his skin to his hair to his eyes, which are watching Dean coldly. His clothes are of the same odd manner as the man from before.

Dean does not pull his knife, but he tightens his grip, standing tall.

“Who are you?”

The man does not speak.

Dean straightens, holding himself how a royal should.

“Are you one of those that lives in the woods?” He asks challengingly. But still the man makes no reply.

They stare at one another, the stranger in cool hatred, Dean in defiance, when—

 

“Raphael,” calls a voice.

 

The man—Raphael—glances over his shoulder, then back to Dean. He eyes him with intense dislike, but turns, disappearing swiftly amongst the twisting trees. Dean hastens after him, his heart pounding.

He pushes his way into a clearing and finds at least a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him.

 

They all stare frozen, as if poised to take flight. Dean quickly holds up his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I did not mean to intrude. I only meant…”

He trails off as he the one called Raphael strides across the clearing, leaning down to whisper in the ear of—

 

The man. The one with piercing blue eyes, which are now staring at Dean with a kind of reluctant curiosity.

“You came back,” he says. He sounds surprised.

 

The small band of people behind him relaxes slightly, but not one takes their eyes off Dean. They could not be more different, but all are dressed in that same ragged white cloth.

 

“Castiel.”

The speaker is a woman, standing behind a girl, her hands on the girl’s shoulders, both with hair the color of fire.

“Castiel, you know this man?” She asks, eyeing Dean with distrust.

 

Dean realizes with a jolt that it’s the man’s name. Castiel.

“I apologize—”

 

Dean steps forward, raising a hand.

“I did not mean to startle you, my lady.” He looks up at Castiel. “I came upon...Castiel in the wood. Two nights ago.”

A few eyes dart quickly to Castiel, then back to Dean. Castiel does not say a word.

Dean clears his throat.

“My name is Dean,” he says, smiling softly. “My family and I inherited this kingdom—“

“You are the new king?” A clear voice asks.

It comes from a boy who looks barely more than a child, his pale skin dusted with freckles.

“No,” Dean admits. “I am not yet of age.”

A soft murmur goes through the circle.

 

“King…” the boy says carefully, as if saying the word for the first time. “You ought to be careful,” he says suddenly.

Dean looks at him, his smile disappearing.

“Is that a threat?”

The boy’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head.

“No, I merely meant—“

“Samandriel,” Castiel says warningly.

The boy falls silent.

Dean glances around, intrigued by this strange community. This Castiel is by no means the eldest, but it’s clear they all look to him.

 

“I must ask.”

Dean gestures around.

“Why do you live here? In the woods?”

 

It’s silent, then the girl closest to Dean steps forward. She hesitates, looking to Castiel.

Castiel inclines his head.

“You do not need my permission to speak,” he says, smiling slightly.

The girl shyly returns the smile, then turns to Dean, her face brightening.

“This is our home. It always has been.”

“But—how do you live?” Dean asks, curious. “Food, and shelter…”

“You’d be surprised,” a taller man near Castiel says. “There are many treasures here.”

They all nod in agreement, tentative smiles breaking out. Dean has a growing suspicion that they have not spoken to someone outside their group in quite some time.

 

“It’s a quiet life,” another woman says. “But a good one.”

She smiles warmly at Dean.

“My name is Hannah,” she says, inclining her head slightly. “Welcome.”

“I have to admit, I was curious.” Dean smiles. “I was told these woods were cursed.”

The smiles fade somewhat. Dean frowns, wondering if he made an error.

Castiel speaks again, his voice low.

“People will always be afraid of what they do not understand,” he murmurs.

 

Dean shakes his head.

 

“I do not understand—”

“We should not be speaking to him,” Raphael suddenly snaps. “Our business is ours alone.”

Dean stares at him in astonishment. Raphael’s eyes are cold.

“I do not understand why you feel the need to interfere,” he says darkly.

“Raphael,” Castiel says quietly. “Please.”

 

The rest of them are silent. Raphael tears his eyes from Dean to glare at Castiel. Castiel holds the gaze coolly, unflinching.

Then Raphael turns, retreating to the edge of the glade. He crosses his arms and does not speak again, fuming in silence.

 

Dean swallows.

 

“I know, you think we are strange,” Hannah starts. “But we have more freedom than most could ever hope to have.”

“Sometimes,” the boy says softly.

Dean frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“It is late,” Castiel says suddenly.

 

Dean holds up a hand, beginning to protest, but Castiel turns, staring off through the trees. Dean follows his gaze, to where a faint blush is beginning to show on the horizon. He falls silent.

 

Castiel’s voice is soft, but clear.

“You would do well to get back to your castle, Dean of Winchester.”

 

Dean shakes his head, taking a step closer.

 

“But wait, I—“

Then they’re off, disappearing like ghosts into the trees, so suddenly Dean has no hope of following.

 

Around him, the world is awakening, the dawn illuminating the twisting paths between the trees.

 

This time, finding the way is a simple matter—his thoughts anything but.

 

He heads for home, his mind in a storm.

 

 

x

 

The next morning, surprisingly, he receives no reprimand for being mysteriously absent for his dinner. He gets an earful from Crowley, of course—but when he sees his mother before his lesson, she does not mention it, merely smiles and wishes him a good day, before returning to her busy schedule. Dean is starting to suspect his mother was unaware of the whole affair.

 

 

“Bobby?”

“Hmm?”

He doesn’t look up from his work, scratching away with his quill. Dean fiddles with the page of the book he’s on, some text on economic policies that Dean has been attempting to read for the last half hour.

“Have you…have you ever heard of people living in the forest? The one by the lake?”

“What’s that, boy?” Bobby asks distractedly, squinting at his map.

“People,” Dean says again. “In the woods?”

Bobby’s finally looked up from his work, eyes squinting at him from behind his spectacles. Dean suddenly feels quite stupid.

“Don’t be silly,” Bobby says irritably. “People living in the forest?”

He snorts, grabbing his container of sand to shake over the fresh ink.

“You’re starting to sound more like your brother,” he grumbles. “Fairy tales.”

Dean looks back at his book, his cheeks hot.

“The men say it’s cursed,” he mumbles.

 

Bobby pauses at that. He looks up slowly, shaking his head.

“There are some things I do not believe in,” he says. “But it’s another thing to bait the bear. Do you understand me?”

Dean stares at him, shaking his head minutely. Bobby glances around, as if afraid someone might overhear.

“I’ve called this place my home for more than twenty years,” he says. “But I was a stranger here, once, too.”

Bobby leans in.

“And where these silly Daughton lords are concerned, magic is the most grievous sin.”

 

Dean swallows. He’s never seen Bobby quite so serious. It sends a chill down his spine.

“Do not mention it again,” Bobby says. “Understand, boy?”

Mutely, Dean nods.

 

Bobby’s eyes search his face for a moment, then he collects himself, picking up his quill again.

“Now then,” he says matter-of-factly. “The policies of Kind Edward.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dean spends the morning with his mother and his brother, just the three of them. No courtiers, no servants, nothing else. Just them.

It’s wonderful, but bittersweet. These moments are few and far between, and Dean knows once he takes over the responsibilities of the throne, his time with his family will only become more limited.

 

Mary has permitted him to continue his rides, as long as he brings an escort for when he goes outside the castle walls. But today, Benny is unavailable, saddled with training of new recruits, and Dean is accompanied instead by a chattering, inane guard, who keeps up an endless running string of thoughts, seemingly unconnected. They have not even passed the outskirts of the village, and Dean feels as if he might go mad.

 

It’s a small matter to convince the man to stop for a rest. It takes no coaxing at all for the man to stop into an inn for a drink. Dean waits until he’s dismounted, and that’s when he pulls on Chevre’s reigns, digging his heels in, sending her off into a gallop.

Shouts follow him, but they soon fade away, and the only thing he hears is the wind as it whips past his face.

Dean lets out a shout, exhilarated. He’ll catch hell for this, back at the castle—but for this glorious moment, he is free.

 

He pulls up to the edge of the woods, slowing Chevre to a trot. He dismounts, careless for the noise as he cups his hands to his mouth, shouting.

“Castiel!”

He smiles wide, anticipating the look on his face.

“Castiel!”

 

"Well. What do we have here?"

 

 

Dean whirls. Behind him, three men, emerging the brush. One holds a dagger in his hand, a lopsided sneer on his face. The other is fat, and balding, with a pug nose that looks like it’s been broken a time or two. The third man is tall, with merciless eyes.

Dean pales.

 

The three of them move slowly forward, cutting off the route to the forest, Dean’s only possible means of escape. The fat one is eyeing Chevre.

“Pretty horse,” he hisses.

 

He lashes out and snatches up her reins. Chevre whinnies, backing away, but the man pulls her forward, laughing hoarsely.

“And this saddle,” he says, running a meaty hand over the leather. “Looks like it’s worth a copper or two.”

“A rich man’s saddle,” the second one says, leering at Dean.

Dean snarls, but the man just laughs, jabbing out with his dagger. Dean recoils.

“Be smart, boy,” he threatens. “And maybe you’ll keep your life.”

 

Dean can do nothing, helpless to watch as the first man loots his belongings, unstrapping the bags on Chevre’s saddle and dumping their contents on the ground. Dean curses. His knife, how could he forget to put on his knife—

“Hold on.”

The man pauses, examining the pommel of the saddle. The man with the dagger turns back, frowning.

“What is it?”

 

Dean follows his gaze, and his blood turns to ice.

 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the fat man breathes, running a hand over the insignia carved there. “It’s the goddamn prince.”

 

The other two turn their heads sharply.

“What?”

 

The fat one looks back at Dean, his expression darkening.

“The Winchester Prince,” he hisses.

 

The tall one echoes the sound, yanking a knife from his belt. Dean backs away, his heart pounding.

“Pretty little prince wandered outside the castle,” the first one mutters. “You got a death wish, boy?”

“You’re making a big mistake,” Dean spits. “You know who I am, what they’ll do to you—”

The fat one sneers.

“We know. And we don’t care.”

 

The second one steps up close, inspecting the edge of his blade. Dean has nowhere to go. The men surround him, the lake behind him—but he cannot hope to swim to safety. The men would seize him before he even reaches the water.

“See, some of us don’t like you Winchesters,” the tall one says, advancing on him. “Some of us don’t think you’re our _real_ rulers.”

“Foreigners,” the first man spits.

Dean shakes his head.

“No,” he says shakily. “You’ve got it wrong—”

The first one makes a grab for him, and Dean ducks, spinning and slamming a fist into his nose. The man staggers back, blood pouring from his nose, swearing profusely. Dean whirls, ready to run—but freezes when he feels the cool press of a blade against his throat.

The second man grips Dean's neck, pressing in closer. Dean recoils, the knife scraping his skin.

“A woman on the throne," the man hisses. "What do women know of ruling?"

“More than you," Dean sneers, and spits in the man's face.

 

 

A blast of pain—and Dean falls to the ground, winded. The man forces him to the ground, shoving his boot into Dean's back.

Dean gasps in pain, trying to struggle up—but the man pins him again, hissing in his ear.

“That bitch is nothing but an outsider," he snarls. His breath is hot, and smells like sour whiskey. "With little bastard outsider boys to take over."

 

Dean struggles in vain, cursing the three of them.

 

"We should kill him," one says.

"No," comes the quick answer. "Ransom. You have any idea how much they'll pay for their precious prince?"

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean grunts, shoving back against the hands holding him. “Either way, I guarantee your death.”

The second man growls, and Dean is shoved down again.

“We’ll see about that,” he says.

 

Dean clenches his fists, ready to strike back.

 

But he never gets the chance. There’s a great hissing sound, and one of the men yells, something heavy hitting the ground.

“What the—”

The weight on top of Dean is abruptly lifted, and he tries to shove himself up, but he’s knocked backward—his head striking the ground as he falls again.

A flash of white sears over his vision—or was that the sky? His head is throbbing and there’s the dull sounds of the three men yelling, something or someone attacking, fighting them off—

 

Someone is yelling, calling his name, and it’s the last thing Dean hears before the world slides into blackness.

And outstretched, above him—great white wings.

 

 

x

 

 

“Dean!”

 

He’s roughly shaken awake, and Dean slowly opens his eyes, dazed.

Benny’s face swims into view, and Dean shakes his head, even though it sends a throbbing pain through his temple.

“Benny?”

 

Benny’s face melts in relief.

“Oh, thank the lord, _Dean—_ ”

He exhales harshly, shoulders shaking.

“Thought we were going to lose you.”

 

Benny gets an arm around him and hauls him up. Dean is able to stand, but he still feels a little unsteady.

“Benny, I—” Dean stops, swallowing a few times. “Thank you,” he says.

Benny curses under his breath. The relief that he had shown when Dean awoke is gone, and anger replaces it, his tone sharp as knives.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

“Benny—”

“Riding off by yourself—you’re lucky Seward told me directly instead of the captain of the guard—he would have had the whole castle out in search for you, if he wasn’t afraid of losing his head—”

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have done that. I was reckless.”

Benny fumes, but glares at him, not even close to forgiveness. Dean places a hand to his temple, feeling the tender swelling there.

 

“What happened?”

 

Benny’s face grows hard.

“I took care of them.”

 

Dean swallows, the implication settling in.

“But...before. There was something...was it you?”

Benny narrows his eyes.

“They were scattered when I rode up. I assumed you managed to fight one off, are you telling me—”

He cuts off, pressing a hand to his face.

“You’re hurt, you’re not making sense. We need to get back to the castle.”

“Benny.” Dean reaches out, gripping Benny’s sleeve. “Don’t tell—don’t tell Mother. Please.”

“Are you mad?” Benny growls. “This is going to our grave. If the queen finds out what happened today—”

He cuts off, his jaw clenching.

“Get on your horse,” he mutters.

 

The ride back is a daze. Dean isn’t sure, but he thinks he dips in and out of consciousness, his head still pounding. Benny makes all the excuses for him, saying the prince must retire early, due to a headache. It’s not exactly a lie, but Dean still feels sick to his stomach. He nearly lost his life, because of his own stupidity, his own bravado. All to chase after some fleeting dream in the cursed woods.

 

 

Dean's eyes fly open.

 

 

x

 

 

He stumbles over to Sam’s bedroom, hammering on the door. After a moment, it creaks open, Sam looking bewildered.

“Dean? What’s wrong, are you—”

Dean pushes past him, looking around.

“That book,” he says impatiently. “Where’s that book?”

Sam gets a hand on his shoulder.

“Dean—what—”

“The book!” Dean says, growing agitated. “Your fairy tales.”

Sam’s eyes go wide, and he looks as if he’s about to ask—when he sees the look on Dean’s face.

He wordlessly turns, pulling the book from its place on the shelf and handing it to Dean.

 

Dean tears relentlessly through it, searching for the page, the page he saw—

 

 

There. The same illustration, a white bird with wings outstretched, feathers outlined in gold.

 

 

 

 

 

A swan.

 

 


	2. Act II

 

Dean pulls up his hood, keeping his eyes downcast, darting through the twisting streets. It wouldn’t do him any good to be recognized. He’s still shaky from his encounter with the men by the forest, and he does not wish to encounter any foe at the moment.

 

Finally he sees it, a darkened tavern with a rusty sign, squeaking slightly in the wind.

Dean pushes open the door and is relieved to see it mostly empty. Only an older woman behind the bar, and the girl he’s looking for, wiping down tables.

 

He moves quickly, laying a hand on her shoulder, and she whirls, a fist raised. Her eyes widen when she sees Dean, and her mouth falls open.

“Your highness—?“

“Shh!”

Dean grabs her arm and pulls her aside.

“Please,” he says. “No one must know I’m here.”

 

Jo looks around, looking baffled.

 

“Why? Why are you here?” She pinkens slightly. “My lord. I mean.”

“Dean,” Dean says impatiently, waving a hand. “It doesn't matter, listen—”

He takes a deep breath.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about the curse of the forest. Michael, the sorceror—anything.”

She blinks at him in shock.

 

“W-what?”

 

Dean speaks quickly, knowing he sounds like a madman. 

“You said he can change himself, into a bird? But what if it was not just himself, but others as well?"

She’s shaking her head, her eyes wide. She seems slightly spooked, perhaps believing Dean to be taken by a spirit, or possessed by a madness.

“Sir, it’s just a legend," she hushes out. "It's not  _true_ —it can't be—"

“It doesn't matter!" Dean shouts, slamming his hand on the table.

 

“Jo?”

 

The woman at the bar is staring at them, her eyes steely. Her hand rests on the hilt of a knife, cleverly tucked away in her belt. Jo quickly raises a hand.

“It’s fine, Mother." 

She wheels on Dean, poking a finger in his chest. 

All due respect, my lord," she hisses. "But  _be quiet._ " 

“Jo, please,” Dean begs. “There’s no one else I can ask. If I so much dared mention this at court—“

"Hush!" Jo says.

She looks around fervently, then drags Dean over into the corner, sitting him down.

 

"Those lofty nobles aren't the only ones afraid of magic," she whispers. "You have to be careful what you say around here. The story is one thing, but to speak of it seriously—"

 

“Just tell me,” Dean pleads.

 

The girl stares at him, her expression unreadable. Then without a word, she stands, leaving him at the table. Dean’s brow quickly darkens in anger, and he is about to call after her—when she returns, slapping two mugs of ale down on the table in front of Dean.

 

 

“Well, sire,” she says. “You want a legend, you’ll get it.”

 

 

x

 

Dean pushes open the door to the library, his head buzzing with Jo’s words. The longer version of the tale was much more common among the village folk, and Jo had told him the whole story, all the parts the gilded book had entirely left out. Michael was originally of royal blood, and had cursed an entire court. In pursuit of what, who knows—power, wealth, his own sick enjoyment—and had ruled until he was overthrown, when he retreated to the castle on the hill. No one had seen him since. By some unspoken law, the townspeople avoided the place, believing it haunted.

But that had been who knows how many years ago. His story became myth, and myth became legend. Dean’s not really sure if he believes it himself. He has to be sure.

 

He pulls down the heavy book from its shelf, glancing over his shoulder as he does so. Bobby’s currently downstairs, fussing with the kitchen maids about dinner, no doubt—but Dean is still wary. Bobby did not like anyone touching his precious tomes, and Dean isn’t sure how he’d explain his sudden thirst for the history of the region.

He flips through the pages and runs his finger down the list. There, a Michael, ruling over one hundred and fifty years ago. That couldn’t be right. No man lives that long.

 

Dean pores over the book, noting with some frustration that the name Michael is fairly common—there's no possible way he discern which one he might be. He's ready to close the text when he sees something scratched in the corner—a footnote. Tiny cramped writing, about a mysterious illness that caused the death of an entire court, including the king and queen. And after that, no ruler listed for nearly fifty years.

Dean closes the book and sinks his head in his hands, trying to even his breath. This couldn’t be. He has to be imagining things. His mind running away from him, his mother would say, just like when he was young, inventing tales of far off worlds and people.

First, his infatuation with Castiel, and now this.

 

 

It did not take Dean long to realize why he kept returning to the forest, night after night. There was just something that drew Dean to the man—perhaps the mystery, perhaps his solemn way of speaking, or even the color of his eyes—but the truth was, Dean was starting to fall, fall for a man he barely knew. But he can’t help it, he can't help what his heart wants. None of the court girls had ever interested him in this way—the men either, though many a squire had propositioned him. They’re blank and vapid, like the crystal vases that his mother loves so much. Beautiful, but empty inside.

But Castiel isn't like that. Dean can sense it—he has a hidden depth, a mystery Dean is desperate to unravel.

And perhaps he is about to.

 

He carefully replaces the book and leaves the library. The door clicks behind him, and Dean knows he’s already made up his mind.

He curses under his breath.

“Dammit.”

 

 

When Chevre canters into the woods, twilight is not far off. The sun shines lazily through the trees, dappling the forest floor. The earthy smell of green, wet rain on the leaves—it’s been almost a week since he was here last. Part of him is terrified, to return to the place of his attack—but those men cannot harm him now. They’ll never harm anyone again.

 

Up ahead, a noise disturbs the quiet. Something not too far off, struggling.

Dean clucks his tongue and turns Chevre’s head, and she trots softly towards the noise. He pulls her up when he sees what it is, holding his breath.

A swan. Struggling feebly away from him, its left wing twisted at an odd angle.

 

Dean dismounts softly, approaching it with caution. It’s trying vainly to escape, but it’s clearly in pain. The wing has to be broken.

 

Dean circles around it and steps into its path, kneeling. It backs away, but sees it’s cornered and ducks its head.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Dean says softly, inching forward. “I want to help.”

 

He feels slightly foolish. There’s no reason for him to believe that this isn’t an ordinary bird, one that does not understand him.

He takes a deep breath.

 

“I don’t know much about wings,” he starts softly, “But when you change, I’ll set your arm.”

 

 

The swan freezes in a very unswanlike way. Dean’s pulse kicks up a notch. Could it be—?

 

It turns a fierce orange eye on him, cold and calculating. Dean doesn’t dare move.

 

Then it’s as if it resigns itself, and it settles on the floor, awkwardly holding out its broken wing.

Dean swallows, stepping closer. Now he can see the unusual red markings, around its eyes and streaking over its head, unheard of on a normal swan. But this isn’t a normal swan.

 

He gently touches the wing, and the swan lets out a noise of pain. Dean snatches his hand back.

“I’m sorry.”

He bites his lip.

“I’ll…I’ll wait.”

 

He sits down softly across from it, crossing his legs underneath him. Chevre tosses her head, nickering.

 

Dean and the swan sit in silence as the forest slowly darkens around them. The second the sun disappears below the horizon, it happens.

 

 

Standing before him, a swan no longer—but a familiar young woman with red hair, hunched in on herself, drops of water dripping from her dress as if they were feathers.

Dean steps closer, slowly, afraid that she's a phantom, that at any moment, she might melt away.

 

He raises a hand and she jerks slightly back from him, as if forgetting she no longer has wings to fly away. Dean quickly pulls back, backing off.

 

She watches him with challenging eyes, cradling her arm awkwardly. Dean can see now, it’s a simple matter to reset the wrist, but he does not wish to frighten her.

 

They stare at each other for a moment, spellbound under the trees. Dean swallows, his throat dry.

“Hello.”

She slowly dips her head in reply. She doesn’t take her eyes off him.

Dean turns up his palms.

“May I?” He asks softly.

 

She watches him for a moment more, evaluating him silently. Then she nods.

 

Dean exhales slowly, kneeling in front of her. She winces when he gently pulls her arm towards him, but does not speak a word.

 

Luckily, he has all the necessary supplies in his saddlebags, and he gently splints her wrist, beginning to wrap it.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks softly.

She does not answer for a moment, but when she does, her voice is clear, unafraid.

“Anna.”

 

Dean smiles.

“Anna,” he repeats, continuing to treat her arm. She is brave, not letting her pain show. She tilts her head, peering at him.

“How did you know?”

Dean looks up.

Her voice is curious, and she seems almost in awe.

“No one’s ever figured it out,” she says quietly.

 

Dean lets out a brief laugh.

“I happen to put stock in old legends,” he murmurs.

 

He finishes sewing up her bandage and sits back, placing things back in his pack. She runs delicate fingers over the cotton, bowing her head slightly.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

It’s the first time Dean’s seen her smile.

 

He closes the clasps on his bag.

“What happened?”

She stands, brushing the dirt and leaves from her clothes. Her movements are oddly birdlike.

“Falcons," she says. "They sense we are different. Usually they leave us alone, but I was separated from the rest and…”

She falls quiet, standing still under the moonlight. Dean doesn’t dare speak.

 

“They’ll be looking for me,” she says suddenly, a steely edge to her tone. Dean quickly holds up his hands.

“I promise. You have nothing to fear.”

Anna eyes him warily, then turns, stepping cautiously closer to Chevre.

“It’s hard to fly through the woods,” she says, almost to herself. “The trees are too thick.” She glances over her shoulder. “Now that we’re human, they’ll find me soon.”

Dean nods.

“I understand.”

 

She reaches out a hand, and Chevre steps closer, sniffing at her curiously.

“What’s your horse’s name?” She asks.

Dean looks up, surprised. She smiles shyly.

“We are not animals, but I still feel their pain. Their joy.” She looks at Chevre. "This one is happy."

She hesitantly touches Chevre’s nose, who leans into the touch, whinnying. Anna smiles wider, beaming.

 

Dean is amazed, watching the two of them interact. Chevre can be thorny and difficult, especially around new people. He's never seen her act like this around a stranger.

"Chevre," Dean says. Anna glances back over her shoulder, smiling incredulously.

“Meaning goat?”

Dean laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“My brother’s bright idea. It started as a jest, but now she won’t respond to anything else.”

 

Anna smiles.

“I like it.”

She turns back to Chevre, cooing softly. Dean moves up too, patting her neck. Anna runs her fingers through Chevre's mane, looking up.

“I imagine you have questions.”

 

Dean bites his lip.

He does. Oh, he does. He had been bubbling with curiosity this whole time, but he had restrained himself, out of respect.

 

"I have many," he admits quietly. "If you do not mind."

Anna shakes her head. Dean takes a deep breath.

 

But before he gets the chance to speak, behind them comes the sound of fleet footsteps. They both turn in time to see Castiel burst from the trees, panicked and out of breath.

 

“Anna,” he says when he sees her, his face melting with relief. “Thank goodness. When we lost sight of you, we did not know what to think, and I—“

He notices Dean, and stops immediately, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.

 

“Your mother is worried sick,” he says eventually, but his eyes are on Dean.

Anna steps up, showing him her bandaged arm. Castiel touches the wrapping delicately, then looks up, the question in his eyes. Anna nods towards Dean.

“He found me, Castiel. He helped me.”

 

Castiel's eyes find Dean's, his brow furrowed. Anna runs a hand over her wrist.

“I’m fine,” she says softly. “I’ll go to her.”

 

She faces Dean, dipping her head briefly, and runs off.

 

 

 

Leaving Dean and Castiel alone. Castiel is still staring, and Dean grows anxious under his piercing gaze.

“Thank you,” he says eventually.

Dean waves a hand.

“It was the least I could do.”

 

Castiel looks at him curiously, then to Chevre, who seems to be mourning the loss of Anna, looking off in the trees where she disappeared.

"You cannot seem to stay away from these woods," he says, but there's no reprimand behind it. Dean swallows.

 

"I had to come," he says softly. "Because I had to know."

 

Castiel's frown deepens, but he says nothing. Dean takes a deep breath.

 

 

“I saw her, Castiel. I saw the swan.”

 

 

 

Castiel's expression does not change, but his face grows pale.

“What?”

Dean steps closer, lowering his voice.

“I saw her,” he says again. “I saw her transform.”

 

For a long moment, Castiel is silent.

“Well.” He exhales slowly. “I suppose we need to talk.”

 

 

 

x

 

 

 

“I’ve heard the legends,” Dean says softly. “I’ve tried to find it in books. But I want to hear it from you.”

Castiel is quiet, his hands in his lap. They sit silently by the edge of the lake, watching the waves wash against the shore. Dean waits patiently. He can only imagine what's going through Castiel's mind.

 

"Michael is...he's real." Castiel takes a deep breath. "He is a sorceror."

 

Dean holds his breath. Castiel looks out at the water.

“He's my brother.”

 

 

Dean looks up, his mouth slipping open.

That was one thing the legend left out.

 

 

Castiel sighs, his long fingers twisting together.

“We grew up together, in the castle you now call your home. He had always been obsessed with magic, reading every book he could get his hands on, but our parents thought it nothing more than silly fantasy.” He looks up at the sky, exhaling slowly. “Until he got it into his head that he deserved to rule.”

Dean swallows.

“He wasn't always this way," Castiel murmurs. "It was the magic that did it, I'm sure. It drove him crazy. He was a kind soul, a good brother—but the spells poisoned him. And he killed our parents, cast a spell on the rest of the court—“

Castiel shivers, pausing for a moment. His eyes are closed.

“Enough of his humanity was left to let us live,” he says softly. “But cursed. Cursed to a half life, the life of a swan." 

Castiel stares down at his hand, slowly flexing his fingers.

"We are allowed to return to human form, but only between midnight and dawn.”

 

 

Dean thinks back, to all the times he had seen Castiel. He had never realized it before, but he had never chanced upon people in the woods during the day. At the time, he simply thought it his own error, but now he realizes. He had been looking for something that was impossible to see, yet Castiel had been there, the entire time.

“The ones you met in the woods are all of us that are left,” Castiel says. He glances up at Dean. “We are not related, but I consider them my family. We are joined by our tragedy.”

Dean can’t tear his eyes away.

“Castiel…” He can’t think of anything to say. “I’m sorry.”

 

Castiel smiles, but it's sad.

"We have accepted it," he says. "It took some longer than others, but this is our life now. It is pointless to want something that can never be."

 

The silence stretches. Dean can sense Castiel’s sadness, can feel it radiating from him. Dean longs to touch him.

“But there must be some way..." Dean muses. "Some way to break the spell. There always is."

After all, that was how the fairy tales always ended. 

 

Castiel turns his eyes away. For the first time, he seems hesitant.

“Only…with his death,” he finally says. “But we have not seen him for years.”

 

“And you never tried to leave?”

Castiel straightens, a steely glint in his eye.

“He may be mad, but he’s not stupid. We do not see him, but I know he keeps a close eye on us. We are the one last remnant of his powerful days.”

He looks back over the lake.

"After the curse, he ruled for a while, but he became overcome by his magic, so wrapped up in his own world, and the kingdom suffered greatly. I do not know if they tried to kill him, but one day, he was back, and he retreated to his castle on the hill." Castiel's eyes turn to the ruined building up on the cliff. "And he passed into legend."

 

 

His face changes, a strange longing, twisted in sadness.

“I always said swans were my favorite,” he says softly.

 

 

Dean does not know how to respond. His heart aches for the man, after hearing his tale. Suddenly all the inconveniences, all the things about Dean's new life in Daughton seem silly. They're nothing compared to Castiel's sorrow.

 

Castiel shakes himself, pulling his gaze from the water, turning back to Dean.

 

“Forgive me," he murmurs. "I have never told this story before.”

Dean is surprised.

“Never?”

Castiel raises one shoulder.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone outside my family since I was turned. It is too dangerous.”

 

Dean’s throat is dry.

 

“How long?”

Does he dare hear the answer?

 

Castiel thinks for a moment.

“I was twenty-three,” he says. “The year the great comet last blazed across the sky.”

Dean frowns, flicking briefly through his lessons, memories of Bobby droning on about moons and planets and—

 

“One hundred seventy years?” Dean asks, stunned.

Castiel turns his eyes downward.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”

Dean moves without thinking.

“Cas,” he says, grabbing his arm.

It’s the first time he’s touched him and called him by that name.

 

 

 

Dean never felt this way before in his life. Just his hand against Castiel’s skin sends tingles running through his veins, like lightning.

 

Before he can apologize, and draw his hand back, Castiel turns. He twists his arm, sliding his hand until they’re palm to palm, letting Dean's hand rest softly on his own. 

“You could have been afraid, but you were not,” Castiel says softly. “You helped Anna when you did not have to.”

Dean cannot breathe, heart jumping wildly as Castiel moves closer, his eyes flicking up to Dean’s face.

“You are a very unusual man, Dean of Winchester," he murmurs.

 

Dean doesn’t bother correcting him this time.

 

“I could say the same to you,” he says, smiling at the memory of that first day in the woods. Castiel smiles too, and links their fingers together, his touch warm and inviting.

Dean licks his lips.

“I’m so glad I kept coming back,” he murmurs. “Otherwise, I might have never figured it out.”

Castiel laughs slightly, his other hand tracing up the length of Dean’s arm.

“You’ve no lack of stubbornness, I’ll give you that.”

 

Dean smiles as well, watching him.

 

"And I suppose I have to thank you," he says softly.

"Oh?"

Castiel looks up.

“And what is it I am supposed to be thanked for?”

Dean squeezes his fingers gently.

“You saved my life.”

Castiel does not respond, still drawing patterns over Dean’s skin, his touch starting a warm burning in Dean’s veins, slowly consuming his blood.

"It was you, wasn't it?" He asks. Castiel is quiet.

"I did not even think," he says softly. "Not of the danger, or that I might be hurt." He pauses, his hand soft on Dean's. "I just could not let you be harmed."

He looks up.

"Is not that strange?" 

Dean laughs slightly, with a small shake of his head. Everything about them is strange.

“I owe you a debt,” he says. “And I will not forget it.”

 

Castiel nods slowly. 

"As you wish," he murmurs. 

 

 

 

Dean looks down at their linked hands. He takes a deep breath, and bares his soul.

“I’ve…I’ve never met anyone like you.” He covers Castiel’s hand with his own, struggling to get the words out. “It’s strange. I—I feel like I know you. That we’ve met before. Maybe in another life. Another time.” He laughs slightly, shaking his head. “Is that crazy?”

Castiel moves closer, so close to Dean that he could reach out and kiss him.

“You’re talking to a man who spends his days as a swan,” he murmurs. “What is crazy?”

 

He pulls back, smiling a dark mischievous smile. Dean’s breath is coming unsteadily, his heart going wild in his chest.

Castiel stands, pulling Dean up with him.

“Come on.”

 

He still hasn’t let go of his hand.

 

“What?” Dean asks, laughing.

 

Castiel starts to pull him along, smirking.

“When was the last time you went swimming?”

 

 

 

 

 

He takes Dean to the edge of the shore, his toes just kissing the water. He glances back at Dean and smiles, before he walks forward, into the water, clothes and all. Dean stares for a moment, then hurriedly starts to shuck his clothes, yanking off his leather hunting boots and his jacket. He leaves the rest of his clothes and starts to wade in tentatively after him.

 

It’s wonderful.

 

The water is pleasantly cool, a relief against his heated skin. He's up to his waist, yet it feels like a soothing bath, calming him. The clear light washes over them like a sheet of silver, the lake the purest glass, droplets of water hanging like diamonds on Castiel’s skin, shining in the moonlight.

Dean silently moves up next to him, watching the rapture on Castiel’s face.

“You don’t get tired of the water?” He asks softly.

 

Castiel smiles, his palms skimming, just hovering over the surface of the lake.

“Never.”

 

He turns to face Dean, a mischievous smile on his lips.

“Come on, then,” Castiel whispers.

 

Then he dives.

 

Dean blinks at the bubbling surface of the water for a moment, goggling. He can't be serious.

 

A touch at his elbow and Dean starts, whipping around to see Castiel behind him, dripping wet.

His face is shining, and he's laughing, probably at Dean's hesitation.

"Does the water frighten you?" He asks, beaming. Dean scowls. 

"I have not done this in ages," he says, pouting. “I must have been barely more than a boy—“

"Here."

Castiel holds out his hands. Dean looks at him, dubious. But he takes them, and then Castiel's tugging, pulling him down.

 

Dean takes a deep breath, and sinks under the water. He keeps his eyes shut tight, and can hear nothing but the roaring of the water around him. He feels his lungs starting to ache and he quickly surfaces, hands slipping from Castiel's.

“Castiel!” He yells, wiping the water from his eyes. “Cas!”

After a moment he surfaces, hair dripping wet.

“You called?” He asks, smirking.

Dean glowers at him.

“Try opening your eyes this time,” Castiel says, wading closer. “The water’s perfectly clear, you’ll see.”

 

Castiel takes his hand again. Dean takes another great breath, and sinks down.

 

He’s seen the water look black, silver, blue—but under the surface all he sees is green. Cool, clear green—Castiel’s right, it really is beautiful—but without fail, Dean feels himself running out of breath in just a short time. He kicks for the surface, ready to take a breath—

But something happens, he breathes too soon—and he sinks again, coughing and choking.

 

He kicks out, but he can’t find the bottom, it’s too deep—water is all around him, everywhere, blinding tight, pressing down on him.

His hands scramble in front of him, searching for a body that isn’t there.

He panics, his chest burning. There’s nothing, there’s only darkness, he’s—

 

Hands find his, and then they're rising, breaking the surface and Dean gasps, gulping down air, his eyes flying open. Castiel looks alarmed, his hands finding Dean's cheeks.

"Cas," he chokes. "I—"

Castiel kisses him.

 

 

Dean is frozen for a moment, in shock—then sags against him, clutching at his shoulders. Castiel wraps him up, his soft mouth warm and hot and gentle against him, and for a minute Dean thinks he's drowning again, unable to breathe.

They break apart, Dean panting for breath, reeling from the kiss.

Castiel’s hands are on his face, his bright clear eyes on Dean's, lake water clinging to his eyelashes.

“Not while I’m here, Dean of Winchester,” Castiel says softly. “I will always protect you.”

 

Dean coughs, clinging tightly to Castiel.

“You bastard,” he says. Castiel's face breaks out into a smile, radiant.

 

He pulls him back in, lips meeting in a warm press, and Dean melts.

 

 

 

To kiss him tasted like salvation, just on the right edge of sin.

 

 

x

 

 

Some time later, lying against a fallen tree, Dean thinks he’s found something like Heaven.

 

Castiel’s hand moves slowly through Dean’s hair, the other resting on his shoulder, fingers loosely tangled together. Dean sighs and closes his eyes.

He drifts, losing all sense of time. Castiel continues to gently touch him, humming some tune that sounds like something Dean might have heard in a dream.

 

 

Castiel pauses.

His fingers still in Dean’s hair, and Dean frowns, shifting in his lap to look up at Castiel.

“The dawn comes,” he says quietly.

 

Dean swallows, looking as well. The sky is lightening, no longer black but a deep blue, the stars disappearing. Castiel is silent, but his face is a storm of conflict—a sort of longing tinged with sadness—too heartbreaking for words.

Dean sits up, taking his hands.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says. "I promise you."

A flicker of relief runs through Castiel's eyes. He leans in and Dean meets him, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“Seems like such a long time, doesn’t it?” Castiel murmurs.

Dean brings a hand to his cheek.

“I’ll be here.”

 

 

Castiel smiles.

 

 

He captures Dean's lips with a brief but blazing kiss, and then he’s running, making a wide arc through the trees.

Dean turns, the sound of footsteps, swift and strong over the forest floor.

 

The rest of the swans, streaks of white darting through the woods. Castiel joins them, becomes the point as they run fleet footed through the trees. They hit the forest edge just as the first rays of the sun shine over the horizon.

Between one step and the next, they have feathers, wings—spreading wide as they soar over the water into the beautiful sunrise.

“You seem distracted, my love.”

“Hmm?”

 

Mary comes up behind him, brushing the hair back from Dean’s forehead. He squeezes her hand briefly, and she settles in the chair beside him. He flips his book closed, for the words Bobby assigned him had done nothing but slip through his memory like wind.

 

“You seem distant these days,” she muses.

 

Dean swallows, looking away from her worried gaze.

He's been going to the lake, almost every night. He knows he's behind in his studies, but all the goings on at court just don’t interest him anymore. He spends his time waiting for the sun to go down so he can ride to the lake and be with Castiel again. No one knows, but Dean dares not let anyone in on the secret. If word got out that there was a curse—and a sorceror in their lands—who knows what chaos that could unleash.

Best for Dean to keep quiet, for Castiel's sake, as well as his own.

 

But he does not like lying to her. 

  
“Bobby tells me you were falling asleep in your morning lesson.”

Dean tenses.  
Mary reaches out, touching his cheek.  
“Have you not been sleeping well? I can send for something to help…”  
“No, mother—” Dean takes her hand, squeezing it briefly. “I’m fine. Really.”

Mary sighs.  
“I know this is stressful for you, Dean. With the engagement deadline approaching.”

 

Dean stiffens.

He had almost forgotten. The dizzying days with Castiel by the lakeside had completely wiped his mind of his obligations, but now they return, full force.

Of course. His marriage. To a suitable person, so that they may rule the kingdom together. And while many in court turned a blind eye to the kind of relationships Dean enjoyed, the kingdom needs heirs.

“The right person will come along,” Mary says gently. “I know they will.”

Dean swallows.

But they already have.

Castiel. He knows this now.

 

Dean is suddenly hit with a wave of longing, of sadness, because he wants his mother to know. Mary would love Castiel. Mary would love to see them happy, together.

 

“Perhaps at the ball next week,” Mary says, interrupting his thoughts.

Dean’s heart leaps. Of _course_ —he had forgotten—the ball in honor of his birthday. Cas could come, meet his family, no need to mention a curse. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

“Perhaps you will,” he says, smiling up at her.

 

Mary tilts her head, perhaps a little confused by her son’s sudden change of tune, but she doesn’t push it.

She gives him a smile, before she takes her leave, shutting the door softly behind her.

 

 

Dean toys with the cover of the book, thinking. If he's going to pull this off, he'll need someone on his side.

 

 

x

 

 

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Sam stirs at his porridge, not eating, just watching cream drip from the spoon.

 

He looks up. Dean is seated across from him, his meal untouched as well. His head is drooping, and he’s nodding off into his plate. Luckily, Mother is distracted, signing some parchment for the upcoming ball—but she’s not blind.

 

Sam kicks him under the table, and Dean snaps up.

“Huh—what?”

Sam hisses at him under his breath.

“Stay _awake_.”

 

Dean slumps back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, groggily picking up his spoon.

Sam exhales, glancing over at Mary.

 

After last night, he’s tired too, but Dean has been staying awake ‘til the dawn almost every night. It’s no wonder he’s exhausted.

But he has to be careful. People are starting to take notice—the crown prince can only sneak out so many times before people start to whisper.

And oh, how they whisper.

 

Sam is loathe to tell his brother what to do, especially when matters of the heart are involved—but Dean is being reckless.

 

He thinks back to last night, in the woods. He had been distrustful, confused when Dean came to him, asked him to join him on his midnight ride, but ultimately, Sam’s curiosity was too strong. He had to know what compelled Dean to return to the lakeside, night after night. He had his suspicions, but the truth shocked him even more.

 

“Dean, what are we doing?”

Dean threw a grin back at him over his shoulder.

“Just a little farther, Sammy.”

Sam pushes aside another branch, grumbling.

“Oh. More woods. How different.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Oh, quiet.”

A few more minutes of silent struggling through thick bushes and uneven terrain, and Sam grew frustrated.

“What are we doing, Dean? It’s almost dark, and—“

“Just wait.” Dean’s face was barely visible in the last rays of the sun, filtered and blocked out by the thick leaves.

The eventually came upon a clearing, Sam stumbling out from behind Dean, and stopping short.

 

 

Waiting there had been an entire flock of swans. That itself would have been odd, but when they transformed, right before his eyes, Sam thought some sort of madness had seized him, some sinister and dangerous hallucination.

 

Time seemed to stop. Before his eyes, wings turned to arms, to hands and fingers—legs lengthened and they grew taller, hair growing from their skulls. And then, they were swans no longer.

 

Dean started to explain, and the swans—no, the people—they told their story as well, of the curse, of the legend of Michael, how it was all true. Sam had listened, astonished. Some part of him had always secretly, childishly hoped that magic was real—and here before him was the very proof.

 

But he's still struggling to wrap his mind around it. Even now, Sam is not convinced that last night was real, that it wasn't some dream.

 

 

But the white feather, hidden in the pages of his book, given to him by a girl with red hair—that is real.

Dean had introduced them all—the small petite Hael, the taller Raphael, even though he said nothing and glowered the whole time. Anna and her mother Naomi, the boy Samandriel, Gadreel, Hannah...Sam cannot remember them all now. But one stands out clear in his mind. Castiel.

 

He glances up at his brother. Dean did not have to say anything, last night. Sam saw the way they moved around each other, how Castiel addressed his brother with a soft voice, the lingering touches, the look in Dean’s eyes.

 

Then he told him of his plan, of inviting Castiel to the ball.

Sam sighs. He just hopes his brother knows what he’s doing.

 

 

 

x

 

 

 

 

He’s early tonight, and Castiel is still a swan when he lands softly in front of Dean.

 

Dean strokes his beautiful white feathered head, and the minute the sun disappears behind the horizon, Dean’s hands stroke through hair now black as night and Castiel’s lips are on his own.

“Dean,” he breathes. “I missed you.”

Dean frames his face, smiling as Castiel kisses him again, soft and gentle.

“Tell me of your day,” he says, smiling.

 

Castiel laughs. It’s a game they play, exchanging stories. Castiel tells Dean there is not much variation to the life of a swan. Dean says the same of the life of a prince.

But Dean relents, and tells him of the latest crises and intrigues of the court. He tells Castiel about his mother, about Sam. Castiel always listens, enraptured when Dean speaks of his family. He's finally met Sam, and his insight is a little clearer, but Dean cannot wait to introduce him to his mother.

He briefly toys with the idea of asking Castiel to attend the ball tonight. He had been hesitating, dancing around the task, unsure how to exactly do it. He does not believe Castiel would refuse, but still, the thought makes him nervous. And it just never seems the right time. Now, all Dean cares about is how Castiel looks in the moonlight.

 

Dean talks and he allows himself to be greedy, drinking in the sight of Castiel—his face, his lips, the soft sweep on his dark hair over his brow—and the smooth line of his neck, disappearing into the white tunic that all the swans called clothes. He’s gold and full of summer, even though that skin never saw the sun.

 

 

The nights always seem too short, flying by. Castiel gently coaxes Dean to lay down and rest when he sees his eyelids drooping. Dean is hesitant, loathe to miss even a second with Castiel, but when they lie down, the ground feels soft as down, and Dean is so tired he falls asleep almost instantly.

 

 

He wakes slowly, blinking at the night around them. Dean has learned to recognize the time by the height of the moon now. They’ve little over an hour left, Cas’s side pressed warmly up against his.

His eyes slip closed again, every part of him feeling warm, content. He thinks he could die happy.

“I wish I could be more to you,” Castiel whispers.

Dean opens his eyes, every trace of tiredness gone.

“What are you talking about?” He murmurs.

Castiel shakes his head.

“I wish I could be more than just some phantom at the water’s edge,” he confesses. “Your life...I only see part of it. You deserve someone who can be with you, always.”

 

Dean can tell he’s upset, and he pulls him up, one hand underneath his chin.

“Cas, no—you are enough. “You’re so much more.”

He takes Castiel’s face in his hands, bringing their foreheads close.

“And we’ll find a way,” he murmurs. “We’ll break the curse.”

He feels Castiel tense against him, the way he always does when Dean mentions the curse—but Dean doesn’t stop. Castiel might have given up hope, long ago, but Dean is still searching.

“The castle has the best library in all the land,” he reassures him. “Hundreds of books—and I’ve got Sam helping me—“

Dean strokes a thumb over his cheek, trying to calm him.

“He’s the brightest person I know. He’ll find something.”

“Books,” Castiel says wistfully. “Oh. I miss books.”

“I’ll bring you one,” Dean says. “I’ll bring you anything you want.”

He takes his hands, pulling Castiel up and into his arms.

“Just name it,” he whispers.

Castiel brings a hand to his cheek.

“Just you.” He smiles. “I am happy to have you.”

“You have me,” Dean whispers.

 

Dean’s hands go to Castiel’s waist and Castiel presses closer, one hand lightly gripping Dean’s neck as he presses his lips against Dean’s, eyes slipping closed.

Dean instantly feels a calm wash over him, the sweet coolness of Castiel’s mouth on his wiping every worry from his mind. His grip tightens on Castiel’s waist, bringing him in closer, their bodies pressing flush. Castiel makes a soft noise and his hand moves to tangle in Dean’s hair, meeting him as the kiss deepens, turning into something sweeter, darker, _more_.

“Cas,” Dean breathes. “Castiel.”

Castiel breaks from his mouth, panting, his breaths turning into sighs as Dean kisses down his neck, pulling him closer. He’s burning under his skin, just needing to touch him.

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, stopping him briefly. “We still have an hour left.”

Dean looks up. Castiel presses a hand to his lips, leaning in.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean drops softly from the ledge, feet hitting the ground with a muffled sound. He glances around, but the yard is empty, as always. He makes his ways to the stables, anticipation quickening his steps.

 

Tonight. Tonight, he's going to ask Castiel.

He took extra care with bathing tonight, and made sure his face was cleanly shaven, his hair neat. It seems silly, but he wants to look his best for this moment. He has a feeling it will be one of the most important of his life.

Dean smiles, imagining Castiel’s face when he tells him. Here, finally, is their chance—to be together, in public, get Castiel away from the lake and out of his tattered clothes, and then they’ll—

 

Dean stops short. The stable doors are closed, and on the handles is a heavy iron padlock.

 

Dean curses, pulling at it. It rattles heavily, but doesn’t budge.

“Damn.”

 

Dean steps back, anger starting to build. What fool had decided to lock the doors? They were never locked, the castle was too well-guarded to worry about thieves. Dean scowls, kicking the door. When he finds out who did this, he’ll—

“Dean.”

 

Dean whips around, and stiffens in shock.

 

“M-mother?”

 

Mary steps out from a shadow, lowering her hood. Her eyes are sad.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” she says quietly. “But it seems the rumors are true.”

Dean holds up his hands.

“Wait, I—I can explain—“

“Yes, please, Dean. Explain.”

Mary’s eyes are aflame, her words sharp.

 

“Explain to me what you are _thinking_ , leaving the castle every single night. You know it’s not safe, you _know_ —“

“Mother, I—“

“Dean.”

Mary stares at him.

“People are starting to talk. This behavior cannot continue. It is unacceptable for a man your age, for a man of your standing—“

“But—“

“Just tell me.”

Mary spreads her hands, a pleading note in her voice.

“Where do you go every night?”

Dean stops, closing his mouth. Mary’s eyes bore into him, and Dean can feel her emotion, her frustration with him, and he aches to tell her the truth.

“I—I go hunting,” he says, tripping over the words.

 

“Do not lie to me Dean,” Mary snaps. “You never bring anything back. Do you take me for a fool?”

Dean shakes his head, raising his hands.

“No, I—“

“Where are you going?”

Mary steps forward, clasping his hands. She meets his eyes, begging, pleading.

“Just tell me,” she says.

Dean looks into his mother’s eyes, seeing the desperation there. Shame floods through him, and he drops his gaze. He can’t tell her.

 

Mary slowly lets go of his hands.

“I had expected better of you,” she says, her voice trembling.

 

She steps back, her eyes hardening. Her back straightens and she becomes the queen again, Dean’s mother disappearing.

 

“Inside,” she orders.

"But—"

" _Inside_."

 

 

Dean has no choice but to obey.

 

 

x

 

 

He's miserable all week.

 

Dean is not officially confined to his room, but he feels like he might as well be. He takes his meals there, Bobby comes by at the appointed times for his lessons—the only time he emerges is when he must meet with a courtier, or make some decision for the feast on Saturday. His mother watches him strangely, forlornly, as if hoping Dean will finally decide to confess, to tell her the truth.

 

But Dean keeps his silence, and the space stretches between them.

 

 

x

 

 

The dinner arrangements are the topic for the day. Bobby and Mary hover over him, watching him like hawks.

Dean shuffles through endless lists, of courses, of choices—listening to Bobby drone on and on about oxen and pigs and bread, how many barrels of ale are being shipped in from Laurence.

Dean wants to stand on the table and scream.

 

Mary consults with one of the cooks, then sends Sam off to the kitchen to notify the rest of the servants of the changes. As he passes his chair, Dean catches his sleeve.

“Sam,” he whispers furtively. “You have to tell him—tell Castiel—ride out there, a note, anything—“

“Dean, I can’t.” Sam pulls his sleeve from Dean’s grip, shaking his head.

“They’re watching me, too,” he whispers, and hurries off.

 

Dean slumps back in his chair. Bobby’s monotony continues.

 

 

x

 

 

She cups her hands in the water, lifting it to drink.

 

Crisp and cool, it spreads over her tongue and slakes her thirst. She wipes her mouth, glancing out across the lake.

Castiel is still at his perch, waiting. Facing the road to the castle, back straight, his eyes unblinking.

 

“It’s been almost five days now,” Naomi says softly, slipping up behind her.

Anna turns. Naomi holds out her hand and Anna takes it, nestling into her side.

“What do you think happened?” She whispers.

Naomi shakes her head.

“I don’t know.”

She turns to look towards the road as well.

“I just hope that boy’s alright,” she murmurs.

 

Her pale eyes fall upon Castiel, who is unchanging, keeping his vigil.

 

 

 

“For Castiel’s sake.”

Emotions are running high. Everyone is running around in a flurry, stressed over the preparations for the ball tomorrow.

Dean is mostly unneeded. The tailor finished with him an hour ago, and Dean just watches as various pages and attendants rush back and forth, informing his mother of the last minute changes and disasters.

He sits, his mind starting to fog. He had been desperately hoping, that somehow, he could find a way to get to Castiel. But now the dream is ending. Dean feels as if he’s been jolted back into the real world, all his responsibilities and duties rushing back in a storm.

 

He must propose tomorrow night. To a lady of old Daughton blood, to appease the court and unite the kingdom.

 

But he can’t. He _can’t._ He does not love any of them, he can’t put Castiel aside like one of his possessions.

Oh, god, Castiel.

 

Dean grips the edge of the table. He feels like he might be sick.

 

A hand falls on his shoulder, startling him.

“Here.”

Mary sets the ring on the table in front of him. Dean stares at it, uncomprehending.

“I’m entrusting this to you, once again,” she says, stiff and formal. “You’ll give it to someone tomorrow.”

Dean just continues to stare at the small golden ring, his stomach roiling.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean pulls himself from his haze, realizing Mary is waiting for a response.

“Yes, mother,” he says flatly.

 

He reaches out and scoops up the ring. It’s cold against his fingers.

 

Mary sweeps over to the corner, beckoning to Benny. The man Dean used to call his closest friend is now his jailer. Benny glances at Dean, but steps over to the queen, their voices lowering to a whisper.

 

Dean’s eyes flick up.

 

Bobby is occupied, directing some serving girl with flowers. The queen is not paying attention.

 

Dean is out of his seat in a heartbeat, heading straight for Sam. Sam looks up from his book, his eyes widening.

“Dean—“

“Sam,” Dean blurts. “I have to see him.”

Sam shoots a look over at their mother.

“Dean, no—“

“Sam.”

 

Dean grabs his arm.

“Please,” he says, softer this time. “Please.”

 

Sam snaps his book closed, hissing at him.

“You really think no one will notice if you disappear for an hour?”

“Thirty minutes,” Dean begs. “Please.”

Sam grits his teeth.

“And what the hell am I supposed to tell them?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says hurriedly. “Anything. Please.”

Sam looks around, and curses under his breath.

"Dammit."

He pulls him in, whispering hurriedly.

“Key to the stables in in the blacksmith’s forge,” he mutters. “Back staircase. _Now_."

 

Then Sam stands and sets off across the hall, heading straight for Bobby. Dean frowns, hissing at him.

“Sam, wait—”

 

But Sam is already out of earshot. Dean panics, thinking for a second that Sam is about to turn him in.

Then, about ten feet away from Bobby, Sam suddenly collapses, falling to the floor.

 

A great uproar fills the hall, everyone rushing towards the younger Winchester, everyone shouting at once.

"Make way, make way—"

"Is he ill? Perhaps a fever—"

"It's the stuffy air in this hall, I'm telling you—"

"Stand aside—"

 

 

Bobby shoves the gawking courtiers aside, fanning Sam with a parchment—Mary is rushing over, growing alarm on her face.

But no one’s watching Dean.

 

"Thank you, Sam," he whispers under his breath.

 

 

It takes him a moment to get his legs working again—but once he does he’s running and out the door, bursting into the thankfully empty blacksmith’s and grabbing the key—then rushing to the stables.

Chevre whinnies and tosses her head in delight when she sees Dean—he hasn’t ridden her in nearly a week—but there’s no time for a reunion now. He swings a leg over her and digs his heels in, urging her forward.

He breaks out of the stables, the moon guiding his way.

 

 

x

 

 

Castiel stares at his hands, awash in moonlight.

 

 

Six days.

Six days since he last saw Dean.

Six days without a word, without a whisper.

 

He can feel his fragile heart start to break, fraying at the edges.

 

Castiel blinks and lifts his head, wiping his eyes.

No.

 

He will not give up now. He will not lose hope.

He has been waiting his entire life. He can wait for Dean a little longer.

 

He knows the other swans are watching him, hovering at the forest’s edge, but he wishes they would leave him alone.

His eyes fall back to his hands.

 

 

The sound of hoofbeats jerks him out of his reverie. He stands quickly, scanning the skyline. There—a dark horse, riding fast, and the rider—

Castiel moves forward, his heart swelling.

 

“Dean,” he whispers.

 

 

Chevre has barely slowed to a walk when Dean dismounts, stumbling as he hits the ground. He quickly pushes himself up, and then he's running.

Castiel runs too, running for him.

“Cas—“

They meet on the water’s edge, and Dean throws his arms around Castiel, pulling him close.

 

Castiel’s heart is beating wildly, unable to think, unable to form questions. He just revels in Dean, Dean back, Dean in his arms again—

Dean’s hands find his face and he kisses him, Castiel responding with passion, hands clutching, touching every part of him he can reach.

 

“Dean,” he breathes, a hand coming up to his cheek. Dean shakes his head, the words tumbling from him in a rush.

“I’m so sorry, Cas, they were watching me, and I couldn’t come—“

 

He kisses every part of his face, hands on Castiel’s cheeks as he presses his forehead against his, catching his breath.

 

“I can’t stay long,” he whispers. “They’ll be missing me, but I had to come, I had to tell you, to explain—“

“Dean, it’s alright,” Castiel whispers, curling a hand around his neck. “It’s alright—“

 

Dean pulls back suddenly, gripping Castiel’s hands.

 

“Cas,” he breathes. “Come with me. Come, please.”

Castiel frowns.

“What?”

 

Dean reaches out, smoothing a thumb over the wrinkles in Castiel’s brow.

“The ball,” he murmurs. “I didn't tell you before, but it’s tomorrow, at the palace—“

He slips his hand beneath fabric to touch Castiel’s skin. Castiel’s breath hitches as Dean's hands brush over his side.

“Dean,” he whispers.

 

Dean stops Castiel's words with a kiss, clouding Castiel's mind.

“Everyone will come, they want me to pick a princess to marry, but Cas, I can’t—“

He pulls away from his lips, looking into Castiel's eyes.

“I want you,” he breathes. “I want you to come.”

 

Castiel gently wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist.

 

“I…I can’t.”

 

“I don’t care what they think,” Dean whispers, misunderstanding. He presses their lips together, and Castiel melts, eyes closed and cheeks flushed when they finally part.

“I want you there,” Dean whispers.

Castiel grips Dean’s hand tighter, taking a deep breath.

“Dean.”

“Wait—“

 

Dean’s hand slips from Castiel’s, and then he’s fumbling in his pocket, pulling out something, clasped tight in his fist.

Dean opens his palm, showing him a beautiful golden ring. Castiel stares down at it, unable to move. Dean takes Castiel’s hand.

 

“It’s my mother’s,” he says, his happiness shining out of him like the rays of the sun. “My father gave it to her, the night of their engagement.” He takes a deep breath, looking up into Castiel’s eyes.

“I’m…expected to give it to the one I’ve chosen to be mine,” he says softly.

Castiel looks up.

“Dean,” he whispers. “I…I can’t.”

 

Dean’s face falls, and Castiel rushes to explain.  

“No, Dean, you misunderstand, I—“

He curves a hand around his cheek, looking wistfully at his own hand. He can touch him now, but come sunrise…

 

Dean’s eyes dawn with realization, one hand falling to Castiel’s wrist. He’s quiet for a moment, then reaches into his shirt, tugging a small chain from around his neck.

Dean quickly slips the ring on the chain, and beckons Castiel closer. Castiel leans forward, allowing Dean to fasten the chain around his neck. Castiel places a hand on the ring, feeling cold metal and the fluttering of his heartbeat beneath his palm.

“Please.”

 

Castiel looks up. Dean places a hand on Castiel’s cheek.

“Say you’ll come,” he whispers.

Castiel can’t bring himself to say no.

He drops his eyes, giving a tiny nod.

 

Dean’s smile is ecstatic, his beautiful eyes shining.

He presses a kiss to Castiel’s lips, pulling him close.

“Tomorrow night,” he whispers. “I’ll be waiting.”

 

One more kiss and Dean darts off, throwing a leg over his horse. Castiel sorrowfully watches him go, the sound of hoofbeats fading into the dark night.

 

He exhales slowly, standing.

 

 

Castiel should have told Dean. He should have been brave.

 

If he left this lakeside, he would still retain the form he took when the sun touched his skin—a swan forever, unless he returned to this lake each night.

 

One hand makes its way to the ring around his neck. He grips at it, closing his eyes.

 

This week, when Dean had not come, Castiel had thought he discovered the truth. Now, with this ball, Dean’s suspicions will be aroused, and Castiel will have to tell him.

He takes a slow breath, turning his face up towards the sky. Dawn is still a little ways off. He should join the others.

 

But he does not. Castiel stands by the side of the lake, watching the slow motion of the wind across the water.

He swallows. He should have told him.

 

Castiel did not tell him, because he is selfish. Once Dean realizes he can never spend time with him away from the lake, he will stop coming, to save his own heart as well as Castiel’s. Castiel had seen it before. A lovely girl who had fallen for one of them, one of the cursed, years and years ago. She found out the truth and wept, and never came back.

 

And Castiel _is_ selfish. He wants to keep this for as long as he can. And he is long past hoping, but if Dean said he loved him…

Castiel already knows his feelings.

 

He turns back to the forest, a strange melancholy in his heart.

 

 

Castiel toys with the chain around his neck, walking back towards the trees. After so many years, the sounds of the night are like music to him. The animals, the water, the rustling of leaves on the forest floor—even the moon has its own gentle hum.

He closes his eyes and breathes in the crisp night air, just feeling.

 

Somewhere, an owl hoots. The branches creak.

Castiel snaps his head up.

 

 

He bolts, but the creature tackles him—and they hit the dirt hard, scrambling and shoving against each other.

 

A vice like grip clamps down upon his arm and the thing strikes Castiel across the face, dazing him. Castiel is thrown back, and in a heartbeat the shadow has Castiel pinned to the dirt floor of the forest. Castiel takes heavy gasping breaths, blood dripping from his nose.

It’s been years since Castiel last saw his brother’s face, but now, he’s nearly unrecognizable. A violent, mutated thing—from the magic going sour over the years—distorting and twisting his features beyond recognition.

The dirt scrapes at Castiel’s skin and he tries to push himself up, but his heavy weight shoves him back down, the breath knocked from his lungs.

“Going somewhere, little brother?” Michael hisses.

 

A piercing pain stings through his shoulder—the owl’s talons are digging into his skin, drawing blood. Castiel grabs at him, gasping.

“Michael—no—“

Michael presses a hand to his throat, cutting off his voice. Castiel vainly struggles against him, but it’s no use.

“You know…I didn’t want to believe it.”

Michael’s voice is a rasping hiss, his clicking teeth pointed and sharp. His eyes are still human—but unnaturally round, unblinking, yellow and cruel.

He leans down close.

 

“I’ve been watching you.”

On his five fingers, large talons have grown, twisted and black.

 _The owl,_ Castiel remembers him saying. _Truly nature’s greatest hunter._

 

“Michael—“

 

Michael shoves his head back, and Castiel cries out, twisting in pain. Michael leans right next to his ear.

“I thought they were lying,” he rasps. “I thought my little birds were mistaken when they came and whispered in my ear.”

He pulls back, a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

“But no,” he whispers. “You have been betraying me.”

Castiel desperately shakes his head, choking for breath.

“N-no,” he coughs. “No, Michael, I swear—“

Michael strikes him again and the world whites out. When the world finally slides back into place, Castiel’s head is pounding, something wet and hot dripping down his temple.

 

“I saw him,” Michael hisses out. “Your little prince.”

Castiel breathes hard, frozen under those wild eyes.

 

Michael drags a talon down his cheek, his grotesque lips twisting into a smile.

“Perhaps I’ll pay him a little visit,” he murmurs.

Castiel’s left hand wanders, searching among the forest floor.

“Young little thing,” Michael continues. “Easy to take in, I bet.”

 

Castiel’s fingers find something rough and hard, and he curls his fingers around the rock, bracing himself.

Michael leers.

“One little spell, and he’ll be mine. I’ll watch him kneel at my feet—“

Castiel swings the rock, smashing Michael in the side of the head. He screeches in agony and falls backward, Castiel scrambling out from underneath him.

 

He dives back on his brother and manages to land a few hard blows, blood blooming under his hands. He lifts a fist—

 

A hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. Michael flips him easily, shoving his face in the dirt. Castiel whimpers, his arm twisted up behind him.

Michael presses down painfully on his back, fresh scratches of blood on his cheek.

“Now, now,” he breathes heavily. “None of that.”

 

Michael presses him, his heavy weight making it hard for Castiel to breathe.

“I gave you a chance,” he hisses. “I left you alone, I let you flourish in your freedom. And this is how you repay me.”

He leans down, horrible twisted beak clicking in his ear.

 

“Perhaps it is time for me to get my kingdom back,” Michael sneers.

Castiel coughs, choking on dirt, pressed against the forest floor.

“N-never,” he chokes out. “Dean will stop you.”

Michael pauses.

“Ah...” he murmurs. “Dean, is it?”

 

Castiel feels cold.

“No,” he whispers.

Michael flips him, a lopsided leer slashed across his face as he leans in close, talons digging into Castiel’s shoulder.

 

“They thought they could get rid of me,” he hisses out. “But I’ve grown stronger. You have no idea how strong I am.”

The mad gleam in Michael’s eyes chills Castiel to the bone. His brother has gone utterly insane.

 

Michael’s pale yellow eyes have fallen to the ring around Castiel’s neck. He hooks a talon through the chain, his pupils shrinking.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Michael whispers. “Your precious prince?”

He tightens his grip and the chain digs into Castiel’s neck, leaving him gasping.

 

Michael leers.

“You can’t go anywhere.”

 

Castiel feels his eyes pricking with tears, and he shuts his eyes, shaking his head.

Michael continues to hiss at him.

“Only the lake gives you your human form. Otherwise, you would have run from me long ago.” Michael’s claws dig into his skin.

“And you won’t sacrifice your humanity for anything,” he whispers.

 

“I’ll kill you if you touch him,” Castiel breathes. “I swear to the heavens, Michael—“

Michael strikes him. Castiel moans in pain, everything red and black. Michael looks back at the delicate golden chain, eyes glinting.

“I was going to show you mercy,” he breathes. “But you’ve become too defiant for my taste.”

 

He fixes his eyes on Castiel.

“This isn’t like the fairy tales, little brother. No true love will save you. And besides…”

Michael trails off, leering.

 

Castiel shakes his head, his heart beating wildly.

“No,” he breathes.

Michael smiles.

 

With a slash of his talons, he severs the chain and the ring goes flying, landing in the soft dirt. Castiel yells, making a grab for it.

“No—“

Michael throws him, and Castiel hits something hard, crumpling. He still tries to push himself up though, his arms weak and shaking.

 

“A difficult spell,” Michael hisses. “But _Dean_ will think it’s you, won’t he?”

He smiles evilly, leaning in.

“Especially with this,” he says, dangling the chain, just out of Castiel’s reach.

Castiel shakes his head, but his vision is swirling, black creeping in—

 

“No,” he whispers. “Please—“

Michael grins.

“And if he pledges his love to another…”

 

Castiel’s heart stops.

 

“You’ll die,” Michael breathes.

 

 

Castiel reacts on instinct—shoving himself up and throwing himself at Michael—but the splitting pain in his head crumples him, and he falls to the floor, every dissolving around him.

“No…”

Before he falls into unconsciousness, the last thing he sees is Michael’s face, grinning above him.

 

“It’ll all be worth it when I sit on the throne again,” Michael hisses, drawing his hand back.

 

 

 

He strikes Castiel across the face, and everything goes black.

 

 

It is the night of the ball, and Dean cannot sit still.

 

Below them, the Great Hall shines, dripping in gold and finery. The high vaulted ceilings echo with laughter and music, the thick stone walls keeping the cold at bay. Servants whirl past, trays laden with food—roast duck and potatoes, vegetables, hearty soups with trenchers of bread—and a haunch of venison for every table. The air is rich and smells of spice and perfume—a heady brew that makes the mind swirl.

Mary is distracted, paying close attention to Sam tonight, concerned over his 'fainting' spell the day before. Sam dutifully allows her to check him over nearly every five minutes, but once, when her back is turned, he put his hand up in a rude gesture towards Dean.

Dean had been lucky—managing to make it out and back to the castle without anyone noticing, except for a guard on the southern tower—but a couple gold coins and that was quickly taken care of.

 

But now Dean stands at attention, sharp as a knife. He waits at the top of the stairwell with his mother and brother, their retinue at attention behind them. He does his best to maintain his calm, but he cannot help glancing at the window every few minutes.

 

Mary lays a hand on his arm.

“Are you alright?” She asks softly.

 

Dean takes a deep breath, clasping his hands behind his back. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him.

“Of course,” he says.

Mary nods, and she draws her hand back, but Dean can feel her eyes, swiftly raking over his appearance. A tiny smile graces her lips, the sign of approval.

 

Dean smoothes his hands over his front, exhaling.

The fitters had done well, taking special care with Dean’s dress this evening—a fine Laurence outfit of moss green brocade, one he has been told brings out his eyes—embroidered with delicate silver thread and dotted with mother of pearl buttons.

 

He had even let the servants lace him up this time, deft fingers working at his sides as Dean stared at himself in the mirror, swallowing the nervous feeling in his throat. He could not focus on his own appearance; all Dean could picture was Castiel’s face.

 

It had not occurred to him before, but would Castiel enjoy the court? Would he approve of Dean’s life here? The endless posturing, the constant inane conversation with lesser men—

 

“Lord and Lady Carroll!”

Speaking of which.

 

The steward thumps his staff, and the grand doors swing open, the Carrolls striding in. Dean dips his head, fighting back a laugh. He can only imagine how Castiel would react to a man like Lord Carroll.

Dean’s heart leaps abruptly in his chest.

After tonight, he won’t have to imagine anymore.

 

The steward announces the next guests, and the next, and the next. An endless stream of what seems like every lord and lady in Daughton sashays through the door, dolled up in their finest, glowing and sparkling in the light of the torches.

Mary squeezes Dean’s arm.

“Ready?” She asks, smiling at her eldest. Dean turns to her.

 

Mary is resplendent, dressed in an elegant dark blue gown, curls loosely skimming her shoulders. A fine circlet of wrought silver on her brow marks her as queen—but Dean still only sees his mother, bright and beautiful.

Dean extends an arm, smiling back.

“Ready,” he replies.

 

The musicians strike up a lively tune—a traditional from Laurence that sets Dean slightly more at ease—but his heart is hammering against his ribs as they descend the staircase.  Dean is on Mary’s right, Sam on the left—the three Winchesters, with every eye on them, ready to greet their court.

 

Dean bows and murmurs pleasantries, his family doing the same—but he keeps one eye on the door—waiting for the arrival of the only man he wants to see.

 

 

x

 

Mary sets down her cup, frowning slightly.

 

She has not failed to notice her son’s eagerness—she would have been blind to not to notice the change in Dean tonight—but now, the prince is silent and taciturn, his mood darkening, black as the night outside.

 

As the feast began, Dean had been lively, practically leaping from the table every time a new guest was announced and ushered through the doors. But as soon as Dean saw the new arrival, his face would fall, quick as the blow of a sword.

And as the night continues, with every disappointment, Dean grows more sullen, his words colder, his tone sharper. At this point, he’s merely going through the motions.

 

 

Another song ends, and Dean gives a curt bow to very disgruntled woman before storming off to a side table, grabbing a golden cup and draining it.

 

“Sam,” Mary says quietly. “Is your brother alright?”

Sam glances over, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the young woman he met tonight, a wonderful girl by the name of Jessica.

 

The prince cuts a fine figure in his new clothes, but with no smile to match. He’s watching the couples on the dance floor with a critical eye, and most of the guests are giving him a wide berth.

 

Sam opens his mouth, but then closes it, shaking his head. Benny clears his throat.

“I will speak to him, madam.”

Benny steps down from his place at Mary’s side, and quickly makes his way towards the surly prince.

 

The three of them watch, Sam worrying his lip.

Mary sighs.

“I honestly don’t understand his moods anymore,” she says quietly.

Sam fiddles with the edge of his plate, saying nothing.

“I won’t force him into anything,” Mary says. “But I wish he would talk to me.”

 

Sam can feel his mother’s sadness, aching in every word. He glances at Jessica beside him, then takes a deep breath, turning to Mary.

“I think he’s just…nervous,” he says carefully. “To introduce you to the person he loves.”

Mary frowns, looking up at her second son curiously. But Sam just smiles benignly, and turns his attention back to the lovely girl at his right, who soon distracts him, engaging him in some discussion of the festivities. Sam laughs at her gaiety, and makes sure not to look at his mother. It’s not his place to tell Dean’s secret.

 

x

 

Dean drains the second cup, and thrusts it out once again.

“More,” he grunts.

The bewildered serving man quickly obliges, then backs away, bowing as he goes. Dean scowls and turns away, bringing the cup to his lips.

 

The wine is bitter and tart on his tongue, and as he drops the golden cup back on the table, he spies Benny making his way through the crowd. Dean groans under his breath, quickly looking for an escape—but unfortunately, he doesn’t find one. Benny has always been too perceptive for his own good—scenting out Dean’s troubles like a bloodhound. Dean supposes the man is his best friend for a reason.

 

“Quite the long face there, brother,” Benny says quietly, taking up his own glass.

Dean stubbornly remains silent, his arms tightly crossed. Benny sighs.

 

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” He asks, glancing at Dean from the corner of his eye. Dean doesn’t respond, looking at the empty cup, as if he could will it to fill itself again.

 

“Dean.”

 

Benny moves in, his voice lowering.

“I don’t know what has been troubling you, but for the sake of your mother, for the sake of tonight—“

He cuts off, looking back at Mary. Dean stays stiff by his side.

Benny exhales, turning back to the prince.

“Duty comes first,” he says simply.

 

Dean sets down the cup, a sudden fire burning within him.

 

“Thank you as always for your counsel, Benjamin,” he says sharply. “You always know the right thing to say.”

He strides away before Benny has a chance to respond. Dean just lets his feet carry him, his mind jumbled and warring with himself.

 

He’s not sure where he’s going, what he’s about to do—he just knows there’s a growing pit where his heart used to be, hope disappearing with every step.

 

_BOMM._

 

The great clock in the hall strikes the hour, its melodious hum ringing through the hall.

 

_BOMM._

 

With every chime the pounding in Dean’s head seems to increase, his feet falling heavily, his heartbeat louder—

 

_BOMM._

 

 _BOMM_.

 

_BOMM._

 

 

The last sound of the clock fades, petering out with a final rumble. Dean comes to a stop, pressing a hand to his face. The tears threaten to come, but he will not let them fall.

 

 

BOOM.

 

Dean turns with a start.

 

 

The Great Hall doors have swept open, and silence has fallen amongst the crowd, every eye turning to look. A man stands, framed in the entryway, dressed all in black.

 

 

Dean lowers his hand, trembling.

 

The guests are eyeing the new arrival curiously, murmuring amongst themselves. The man pays no attention. He strides forward into the hall, ice blue eyes fixed straight ahead.

 

Dean feels Benny moving in behind him, a hand going to his sword.

“Sire,” he mutters.

 

Dean ignores him, realizing he’s moving forward, gravitating toward the man like he is the sun.

 

Due to the surprise of the stranger’s sudden entrance, no one notices a second man, who slips into the hall just before the doors close. He wears thick gloves on his hands, and settles in the shadows, watching the room with unusually yellow eyes.

 

Dean notices none of this. He continues to move forward, his heart soaring. He had started to doubt, but now—

They meet in the middle of the floor, and Dean takes his hands, pulling him close.

“Cas,” he murmurs.

 

He ignores the hushed gasps and sounds of surprise around them, only focused on Castiel.

“I almost thought…” Dean looks down, gently squeezing Castiel’s hands.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says softly, looking back into his eyes.

Castiel just smiles mysteriously.

 

In the sharp cut of his black suit in the torchlit hall, Castiel looks so different from the figure Dean knows—lit by moonlight, his eyes as blue as the water of the lake.

But Dean has no doubt, for Castiel wears the golden chain around his neck.

 

Castiel’s hand slips to Dean’s neck, his lips grazing his cheek.

 

“You think I’d come wearing those rags?” He whispers. Dean shivers, gripping Castiel’s arm.

 

A cough from behind them, and Dean hastily clears his throat, stepping back to an appropriate distance. Dean turns to a stone-faced Benny, whose hand still rests on his sword. He’s conscious of the curious gazes on them, and turns, still holding Castiel’s hand.

 

“Benny,” he says firmly. “Introductions.”

Benny stares back at the pair of them, looking over Castiel with a suspicious eye. Dean’s temper flares.

“Stand aside,” he says sharply.

 

But Mary is already standing, descending the steps from the throne. Sam follows at a distance, his eyes on Castiel. Dean cannot read his face.

 

Mary lays a hand on Dean’s arm.

“Am I perhaps about to meet the reason for all those late nights?” She asks, turning her gaze to the man who stands arm and arm with her son. Dean blushes, his cheeks going pink, but the stranger is unfazed.

He merely steps back, sweeping into a low bow.

 

“Castiel,” he says, his voice a low rumble, and Dean can see his mother melt.

Castiel takes her hand, kissing it delicately.

“It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness,” he murmurs.

“Oh, I like him,” Mary says. “Handsome, too.”

“Mother,” Dean blurts.

“Dean,” Mary says, ignoring his outburst. “You’re being rude to our guest.”

 

She places a hand on Castiel’s arm, then looks over at her eldest.

“I believe our friend needs a drink,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

Her tone is sharp, but her eyes are shining, beaming with a quiet joy. Dean cannot help but smile, dipping his head.

“Of course.”

 

He turns, heading straight for the tables set along the side of the hall. None of the guests dare approach him—but then again—Benny is no guest.

He catches Dean’s sleeve, seething in his ear.

 

“Have you gone mad?” He hisses, pulling Dean back sharply. “This is who you choose, to bring to a ball, the night you are to be engaged? What spell has he put you under—“

“Mind your tongue,” Dean snaps. “You don’t know him.”

“ _You_ don’t know him,” Benny shoots back. “This man is a stranger, and he could be dangerous, he could—“

Dean yanks his arm out of Benny’s grasp.

“You presume too much.”

 

Benny stares at him, his face blank with shock. Dean steps back, hissing through his teeth.

“You would do well to remember your place,” he says curtly.

 

Dean takes up a glass and strides away, before Benny can respond.

 

Some small part of him rues his actions, feels bad about speaking so sharply to his friend, no, his best friend—but everything is clouded by thoughts of Castiel.

 

 

Dean turns, moving back to his mother and Castiel, who is laughing at some comment of Mary’s. His laughter is light, silvery, his head tilted back, exposing the long line of his neck.

Dean has the sudden urge to grab him and kiss him raw.

Instead he places a hand on Castiel’s back, handing him the glass.

 

Castiel accepts it, smiling at him.

“Thank you,” murmurs, one hand tracing down Dean’s side.

  
Dean doesn't know what it is—but there's an energy running between them tonight. Everything about Castiel seems darker, more mysterious, and Dean feels drunk—almost bewitched.  
The guests are still standing around, muttering amongst themselves, but Dean cannot bring himself to care. Tonight there are no rules, no responsibilities. Castiel is here with him, _for_ him, and Dean is invincible.

 

“Tell me, Castiel, where are you from?”

 

Dean’s heart skips a beat, but Castiel answer without hesitation, voice smooth as silk.

“Not too far, my lady. I was born in Daughton, but I have been travelling for some time.” He looks up, catching Dean’s eye. “Though, I’m hoping...I’ll be spending more time here in the future.”

 

Dean is breathless, lost in that blue gaze.

 

“Dean.”

  
His mother’s voice cuts through the moment, and Dean turns, startled.

“I must start the musicians," she says lightly. Then she glances at Castiel. "Ask the man to dance will you?”

 

  
Mary smiles and takes her leave, moving gracefully back to the throne. She nods to the musicians, who take up their instruments, ready to play.

  
Dean takes advantage of the moment to take Castiel’s hands and pull him in, speaking low.

“My mother seems to like you.”

Castiel laughs, a deep husky sound.

“And I like her.”

 

His eyes slide over to the man in the corner, lurking in the shadows. Dean does not notice, focused on the feel of Castiel’s hands in his.  
Castiel is a vision, stunning in all black, golden threads embroidered in the fabric, and Dean is entranced at the sight of him. His dark hair, perpetually messy and hanging over his storm blue eyes—tonight, it's artfully combed back and styled, not a hair out of place. In the light of the torches, he seems like a completely different person.

“Dance with me,” Dean says breathlessly.

Castiel’s eyes flash wickedly.

“It would be my...pleasure,” he murmurs.

 

 

Dean holds out his hand, and Castiel takes it.

 

They sweep out onto the floor, Castiel commanding every eye, magnificent in his black silk, his violent blue gaze sweeping the dance floor. Every woman and man that gazes upon him cannot seem to meet his eyes, dropping in respect or fear as he turns towards them. Only a cold pair of yellow eyes watches him from the corner, and Dean, entranced, is unable to look anywhere else.

 

Mary claps her hands, and the musicians raise their bows.

“The [waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CShopT9QUzw),” she commands.

 

  
Castiel faces Dean, his eyes dark. A hush falls over the entire room.

 

 

Dean places a hand on Castiel’s waist, his throat dry as sand.

Castiel shakes his head.

“Closer,” he murmurs. “Like this.”

  
He steps right up against Dean, the heat of his body a solid line.

 

One hand reaches up, grazes Dean’s cheek, then his fingertips trail down his jaw, lingering on the side of his neck. It’s the lightest of touches, and nowhere near as intimate as some of the ones they’ve shared, but it sends Dean trembling. Castiel’s hot eyes are fixed on his.

 

“Dean Winchester,” he says, purring. “You are truly beautiful.”

 

Something in the back of his mind tells him that’s wrong, that’s not what Castiel usually says—but Dean is so wrapped up in the moment, all he can do is nod.

 

Castiel clasps his fingers over Dean’s, placing the other hand on his shoulder.

 

  
The musicians strike the first chord. It sings through the room, humming around them, sweet and sharp.

 

Dean steps back, Castiel follows—

  
And then they're dancing.

 

 

Castiel’s hand rests lightly on Dean’s shoulder, his thumb just on the inside of his arm.  
His eyes are hot and challenging, blue as the night sky and hard as steel.

 

They mirror each other, stepping forward as the other steps back. Castiel sweeps across the floor with a smooth confident step and Dean moves with him, mostly following. Castiel is the one leading tonight.  
  
Dean lifts his left arm and Castiel turns smoothly underneath it, falling back immediately into step as the music swells, crescendoing to a higher pitch.  
  
They continue as other dancers join them on the floor, the smooth gradual rise and fall following the music.

 

 

The song finishes with a flourish, and applause rings through the hall. Castiel seizes the moment and grabs Dean’s collar, pulling him in.

Castiel kisses him deep, with no shame, holding nothing back. Dean lets out a soft groan, Castiel biting at his lip, the darker wetness as his mouth opens, tongue slipping in.

 

As soon as it started, it’s over—Castiel pulls back, once again poised and perfect. Dean looks around, wondering if anyone saw—then decides he doesn't care. They leave the floor, arm in arm.

 

 

Dean does not leave his side for the entire night.

 

Castiel is undeniably charming. He laughs and engages the guests in conversation, always flashing Dean a glance of those dangerous eyes. His present boldness surprises Dean, compared to his earlier quiet stillness. But Dean is attracted to this new side of Castiel, and every minute he falls more in love.

The guests too, are fascinated by the handsome stranger—so much that none of them see the white swan, desperately beating its wings against the window.

 

After food and wine, Castiel leads Dean out to the floor again, joining seamlessly in with the other couples on the floor. The music is sweet and full, and they sweep across the floor, locked in each other’s embrace. Dean can’t look away from his face. He’s utterly transfixed by this dark and bewitching creature in his arms.

 

Dean has had Castiel wrapped tight in his arms, he has had his lips against his, he has touched his bare skin—but Dean has never felt as intimate with Castiel as he does now.

Another deep crescendo, and Dean’s courage soars.

  
  
“Cas,” he whispers, voice dark and hot in his ear. The music picks up, and they move faster, eyes fixed upon each other. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Castiel smiles.

“I think I do.”

 

His answer leaves Dean breathless as they whirl and spin again, soft murmurs of admiration at the handsome couple.

 

Castiel moves gracefully in his arms, his eyes just as concentrated on the crowd as they are on Dean.

 

“Do you miss the lake?” Dean asks softly, toying with the chain around his neck. Castiel’s feral gaze snaps to his.

“Not at all,” he says, his gaze perfect and bright. “I would much rather be with you.”

 

Dean frowns, but then Castiel smiles at him prettily, up through his dark lashes, and Dean's doubts melt away, not noticing the violent glint in his eye.

 

They continue their dance, and the music grows ever faster, swelling high in the great hall.

 

Castiel brings their clasped hands in between their chests, pressing up closer against him.

“Dean,” he murmurs. Dean turns into his touch, eager to please him.

“Cas,” he whispers back. “I want to tell you something.”

 

At that, Castiel instantly pulls back. Dean is frighteningly aware of the black cloth against his beautiful skin, how he stands out in the fire of the hall.

 

“Do you love me?” Castiel asks in a low voice, those eyes razor-sharp, entirely focused on him.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He has wanted to confess his feelings for so long, and he doesn’t hesitate now.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I do. I do.”

 

The music swells, pitching higher. Castiel’s eyes are fathomless.

 

“Swear to me that you love me,” he purrs. “An oath.”

 

Dean stops, placing a hand over his heart. The other finds Castiel’s cheek, but Castiel does not turn into the touch. He continues to stare at Dean, a dark gleam in his eyes.

 

“I love you,” Dean confesses. “I love you, and only you. I will never love another.”

Castiel’s hand digs into his back like a claw.

“You swear?” He whispers.

 

Dean swallows.

 

“I swear.”

 

 

The lights in the great hall spark, torches flickering out.

All at once, it’s chaos.

 

A flash of lightning burns through room, illuminating the faces of the terrified guests. Thunder shakes the building.

 

Dean whirls back to Cas, but it’s not Cas, no—he’s melting, like a wax candle dripping and distorting under a flame.

 

Someone screams. A dark shadow whirls forward, black feathers and yellow eyes, screaming in triumph.

 

The imitation of Castiel starts laughing hideously, leaking black from his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

Dean falls back in horror, staring at the terrible reproduction of his love. Everyone flees, as the laughter gets higher, shriller—

Something towers over him—and Dean gasps, paling in fear before the terrible owl. Michael hisses—and with a swish of his cape they both disappear, the terrible laughter still echoing around the dark hall.

 

 

Another flash of lightning illuminates the figure of a swan at the window.

 

 

“Cas,” Dean whispers.

 

He wrenches himself up, forcing his way through the terrified and confused guests, and falls at his mother’s throne, where Benny is standing, his sword drawn as Sam tends to Mary, her breath coming hard and short.

 

 

“I’m sorry,” he pants. “I—I’ve done a terrible thing. I must put it right.”

Mary looks up at him, face white with fear. Dean can feel Sam’s terrified gaze on him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Then Dean is gone, the echo of the great door slamming behind him.

 

 

 

 

He rushes to Chevre, not even bothering with a saddle.

 

He slings his bow over his back and turns her out of the stable, nearly falling in his hurry. He can hear the shouts of Benny and Sam behind him, but he doesn’t stop. Chevre whinnies loud, spooked by the sudden storm, but Dean turns the reins and bolts her forward.

 

“Dean—“ a voice calls, frantic. “ _Wait_ —“

He ignores it and leans forward, urging his horse on faster, digging in his heels.

 

The road before him is the same as it’s always been, but now it seems longer—stretching ahead of him with no end in sight. He rides, Chevre tossing her head, foaming at the mouth. Dean doesn’t dare stop.

 

Branches whip at his face, stinging his skin with thin cuts. The moon lights his way, and there, around the curve of the forest, the edge of the lake—

Another hard flash of lightning and Chevre rears—throwing him to the dirt. She immediately bolts, and Dean rips himself from the ground, running the last few yards.

 

A scene of horror greets his eyes. Castiel, hunched over, bloody swipes in the arm held in front of his face, trying to shield himself from the twisted half-man, half-owl attacking him.

 

Dean roars in fury, ripping the bow from his back.

“No—“

He stumbles forward, fitting an arrow to his bow.

“Face me, you bastard—“

 

Michael turns, a hateful shriek screaming from his beak.

He darts forward, rushing towards Dean, who panics, dropping back.

 

He struggles to fit his arrow to bow as the owl—the man descends on him, claws open and sharp.

Dean falls to his back, arrow notching his bow.

“No—“

The arrow looses, but Michael spreads his wings and whirls, and the arrow stings nothing but air.

 

Dean scrambles, fighting to stand, but Michael has reared up in front of him, his talons slashing. Dean shoots blindly, but the owl magician deflects every shot.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel cries, shoving himself up, ignoring the stabbing pain in his arm.

 

At the edge of the forest, there’s a soft scream. Anna rushes forward, but Naomi holds her back, terrified to get any closer.

 

 

Michael slashes out and Dean dives—the owl’s claws digging into soft mud. He hisses, stalking after Dean, his pupils dilating.

 

“Come now, boy,” he sneers. “You can’t run.”

 

Dean is fumbling, hands scraping for his bow, lit up by flashes of lightning—Castiel is sprinting towards him, screaming his name.

 

Dean throws himself the last couple of feet, his fingers brushing his bow—but Michael swoops down, knocking it out of reach. Dean falls to his back, panting.

 

Castiel yells.

 _“No_ —“

Michael laughs, a horrible, twisted, evil sound, raising his talons.

“Now...for you to _die_ ,” Michael hisses.

 

Castiel manages to grab one of Michael’s wings, twisting it—wrenching him off Dean and dragging him to the ground. The magician snarls, flailing onto his back, ink-black wings buffeting the air.

 

Behind them, there’s the thunderous sound of hooves, Sam and another rider—pulling up sharply when they see the madness unfolding before them.

 

Benny swears, releasing his sword.

 

 

Sam drops from his horse, running to his brother, who staggers as he helps him up.

Dean is wild.

 

“My bow!” He shouts. “Where’s my bow—“

 

 

Castiel’s body is straining, his muscles screaming—every last bit of his strength dedicated to holding off his brother. Michael fights against him, claws threatening to catch, his beak snapping.

“You little cockroach,” he sneers, hissing in Castiel’s face.

 

Dean rips Sam’s bow from his hands, running before he even notches the arrow, pulling back the string and loosing. The great bird is hunched over Castiel, beak inches from his neck.

 

It strikes him in the shoulder and Michael screams, wheeling around sharply.

 

His yellow eyes fix on Dean, darkening in madness.

 

“You can’t hurt me,” he seethes, his voice a hideous shriek.

He throws Castiel from him, screeching.

“You can’t fight _me_ —“

 

Dean sends another arrow, straight for him, but Michael twists and disappears into black smoke.

 

He reappears behind Sam and Benny—who whirl, but he sends them flying with a sweep of his claw.

 

 

Castiel lifts his head dazedly. He can see Michael, terrible and huge before them, the three men desperately fighting a losing battle.

He looks down, pulling back a bloody hand from the arrow in his side.

 

 

 

Dean scrambles across the dirt, searching for the quiver that fell in the madness. He finds it, pulls an arrow, and rolls onto his back. Another flash of lightning, and—

 

 

 

Castiel shakily props himself on one elbow, gripping the rough fletching of the arrow. He moves it slightly and nearly blacks out. Red hot pain shoots up his side, digging straight into his very core. Castiel braces himself on both hands, panting.

It’s no use. The arrow’s in too deep. If he pulls it out now, he’ll surely die.

 

 

 

 

Sam is back on his feet, but Michael is relentless, swooping down, again and again. Sam strikes out, but Michael evades the blow, flying higher.

“Foolish child,” he screeches. “Give it up.”

 

 

Dean’s arrow strikes him directly in the back.

 

 

 

Michael lands hard, snarling. Castiel rips the arrow from his side, knowing that it will condemn him. He seizes the back of his neck and stabs Michael in the gut.

 

Michael screams. He spreads his great wings and takes flight, the arrow buried deep in his mutated side.

 

Dean pushes himself up, panting. He wipes his brow, watches as Michael flies unsteadily over the lake and heads towards the castle on the cliff, blood dripping from his wound.

Then his eyes fall back to the lakeside, and he sees Castiel.

 

Castiel kneeling, one hand supporting himself, the other over a patch of red that is quickly spreading, staining his skin and his clothes.

“Cas—“

Dean darts forward, screaming his name.

_“Castiel!”_

 

 

He collapses just as Dean reaches him. He falls in his arms, his breath ragged. Dean drops with his heavy weight, Castiel’s hands gripping at his shirt.

“No, no, Cas—“

He roughly turns him over, one hand supporting his neck, shaking him. His eyes start to close.

“Cas, god, please, please—“

“Dean,” he breathes. He’s limp in his arms, unable to muster the strength to move. “You’re here.”

 

“Cas,” he chokes out.

Dean knows from one look that there’s no healing him. The wound is too deep.

“I hit you,” Dean breathes, terror clogging his throat. “Oh, god, I—it was me—“

Castiel shakes his head.

“He sent it toward me,” he mumbles, one hand finding Dean’s wrist, smearing blood over his skin. “It wasn’t you.”

 

The other swans are now emerging from the trees, but they stop in their tracks when they see the scene by the side of the lake, Dean cradling the dying Castiel in his arms.

 

Naomi is frozen, hands over her mouth. Anna is crying.

 

Dean clings to him, choking out a desperate prayer.

“Please,” he mumbles. “Not now, not now. Don’t take him from me.”

He shudders back a breath.

“Please.”

 

 

An angry shriek shatters the air, and they all turn to look. 

 

 

 

Michael has reached the cliff, but at last, the wound takes its toll.

One wing goes limp, and he screeches—terror in his owl eyes.

With his good wing, he tries to balance himself, but he does not have the strength to keep from slipping. He claws frantically at the rock, his own weight sending him plunging over the edge.

There, thrashing in torment and fury, Mad Michael, owl magician, gives up his life.

 

 

Castiel’s eyes dart back and forth wildly, searching for the source of the noise. He grips at Dean’s hand, struggling to speak.

“Is he—is he—“ Castiel coughs, blood on his lips.

“Is he dead?” he gasps. “Is Michael dead—“

 

Dean holds his head, shushing him.

“Don’t move, Cas,” he says, trying to calm him. “We’ll get you to the castle, it’ll be okay—“

“No,” Castiel growls. “Michael, he’s—“

“H-he’s gone,” Dean assures him, shakily brushing the hair from his eyes. “He’s dead. You’re safe.”

Castiel is shaking his head, his eyes sliding closed.

“You’re safe now,” Dean whispers.

 

 

He gathers Castiel up in his arms, rocking him back and forth.

 

The swans keep vigil. No one dares speak.

 

Castiel’s breath is shallow, one hand clutching weakly at the front of Dean’s bloodstained shirt. With his numbered breaths, he whispers his name.

Dean shudders, unable to stop the tears.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I thought—I thought I could save you, I—”

“You did,” Castiel whispers. “Dean, you did. You saved us all.”

He smiles up at him, face pale underneath the blood on his skin.

“Consider...our debt...even,” he murmurs.

 

Dean breaks down, pulling him close.

“No, no, _no_ ,” he begs. “Cas—  _please._ ”

Castiel just smiles sadly at him.

“That’s how it goes,” he whispers. “This is the end of the story.”

 

Dean shakes his head, choking back a cry.

“ _No_ ," he says furiously. "Damn the story. You and me—we’ll make up our own ending.”

Castiel’s eyes slip closed.

 

Dean stares at him.

“Cas?” He whispers. “ _Cas_.”

 

 

 

On the horizon, there are the beginnings of the sun, streaks of pink and gold breaking up the night.

 

 

Dean cradles Castiel to his chest, crying silently. Sam stands a little way off, his face stained with tears. Benny is still, and silent.

 

 

 

Dean holds him, still speaks to him, refusing to believe.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I never said it before. But I love you—and only you. Stay with me. Please.”

He places a hand on Castiel's cheek, pressing a trembling kiss to his lips.

 

“Castiel, please,” he pleads. “I need you.”

 

 

But Castiel is still.

 

 

Dean takes a great shuddering breath, everything within him breaking. He drops his forehead to Castiel's, choking back tears.

There are no more words. He just needs to hold him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then—

 

A breath.

 

 

 

 

Dean stills.

 

 

 

 

A soft cough, the stutter of Castiel’s chest as it moves again, in, out.

 

 

Dean fumbles, pulling him up, taking Castiel’s face in his hands.

“Cas?” He stutters. "Cas—"

 

 

 

Slowly, slowly, Castiel's eyes flicker open.

 

And Dean is blessed with the most beautiful sight on earth, something he’s never seen before.

Castiel, in the light of the sun.

 

 

 

 

Castiel’s voice cracks.

“Dean," he whispers.

 

 

 

 

He turns his eyes towards the horizon. Slowly, Dean looks up too.

 

 

 

 

They all watch, bathed in orange and gold, as the sun begins to rise.

 


End file.
